


Love & Happiness

by howdyspacebuddy (eigengrau)



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: Case Fic, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explosions, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, References to Drugs, Thanksgiving, drug overdose, questionable parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:57:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 33,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7181321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eigengrau/pseuds/howdyspacebuddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sex, drugs, murder, turkey- when a routine case turns deadly three days before Thanksgiving, it's up to March and Healy to get to the bottom of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I kept telling myself I was going to write this whole thing before I started posting it, but honestly I've got really poor self control, so here you go!
> 
> Carries on from the relationship established in "Hard Time Losin' Man" and "Santa Ana Winds", so you might want to read those first for context.

“Real American Dream Homes!” advertises the billboard outside the Wallcott and Reed Real Estate office. Perched on the roof of the glass-fronted building, it features a photo of a Brady Bunch Lite-looking family, dressed entirely in various shades of puke orange and standing on the lawn of a manicured, suburban house. There’s a palm tree in the front yard. Off-Brand Jan Brady is hugging a golden retriever. It’s a nice billboard.

Currently, it’s on fire.

Holly March, full name Holland Alice March, Jr., thirteen point eight years old, sits behind the wheel of a black convertible parked across the street from the towering inferno. She grips the steering wheel with white knuckles, eyes fixed on the Wallcott and Reed building as it goes up in flames.

Three streets down, a fire engine’s siren starts to wail.

Holly bites the inside of her cheek. “C’mon,” she whispers, staring unblinkingly at the billboard even as her eyes start to water from smoke and barely tamped-down fear, “get out of there.”

Something catches her eye, a window to the left of Dollar Store Marcia Brady’s foot-tall smile. Five shapes, in silhouette—five figures. Five people.

Holly wills herself to try to stay calm. She wants to hop out of the car and run straight into the burning building, wants to scream _get the hell out_ , but there’s no one there to hear her. Normally, she’d have ignored her dad’s order to stay in the car, but here, now, she’s frozen, helpless. All she can do is watch as the light from the burning billboard hits the window, illuminating the shadows.

For a split second, she can see them—two men, backs to the glass, arms raised in surrender. Holland March and Jackson Healy look tiny so far up, the men holding them at gunpoint even smaller. Holly’s blood runs cold as she sees the firelight glint off of the gun barrels pointed straight at them.

On the billboard, a spark catches Jan and the retriever.

Everything explodes.

Holly screams.

* * *

 

**THREE DAYS EARLIER**

“No.”

“But—”

“Absolutely not.”

Holland grabs a six-pack of Heineken off the shelf and drops it into the shopping cart behind him. Holly, pushing it after him as he meanders down the aisle, scowls at her father’s back. He can feel it. He ignores it.

“Everyone’s going to be there! I’m going to look like a total loser if I can’t come.”

Scanning the shelf, Holland frowns. “Exactly. Everyone’s going to be there? I know what that means.”

“I don’t see why it’s such a big deal. You let me go over to Jessica’s all the time.”

Yeah, Holland thinks to himself, because usually it’s just you two nice young ladies, not six other girls and a bunch of mouth-breathing boys between the ages of thirteen to seventeen. Teenagers. How did it come to this? He stares hard at the canned peas and, valiantly, makes an attempt to change the subject. “Where the hell is the peanut butter in this damn store?”

“Aisle four.” Holland heads off, but Holly doesn’t move. He turns to look at her expectantly over his shoulder. “Everyone’s going to think I’m a total loser,” she repeats. The fluorescent lights of the supermarket buzz overhead, enhancing her frown to truly heartstring-tweaking proportions.

Holland gets down on one knee and grabs her hand. She smacks the free palm over her face, peeking around the aisle through her fingers. “Look, sweetheart. Guys are awful. Teenage guys especially. Girls are just… you’re more evolved, or something.” He yanks his sunglasses off, wobbling a little on the linoleum floor. “Basically, they’re the worst.”

“But _you’re_ a guy. And please stand up, you’re embarrassing me.”

Holland struggles to his feet. “That’s my point. If I, a dude, am telling you not to trust dudes, then you know I am one hundred percent serious about it.” He starts down the aisle.

“Mom would’ve let me go,” Holly mutters.

Twang. Holland flinches a little, then tries to play it off. “Ha! No she wouldn’t.” He grabs a jar of Skippy and tosses it to his daughter. “No boy parties. That’s final. End of discussion.” The tinny muzak being piped over the grocery speakers starts on a third rendition of The Girl From Ipanema. Holland checks his watch. “Man, it feels like we’ve been here forever. Does time just move differently in supermarkets? It’s like the twilight zone in here.”

Holly glances at his wrist. “The hands aren’t moving.”

“What?”

“Did you forget to replace the batteries again?”

A vague memory swims to the surface of his (admittedly buzzed) brain. The batteries, which Holly had carefully laid out on the kitchen counter, are almost definitely still lying there.

Oh, shit, Holland thinks. “Oh, shit,” Holland says aloud, just for the symmetry of it. “What time is it?”

Holly shrugs. “I don’t know, like… one o’clock?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Holland swears. “I’m gonna drop you off home and then I’ve gotta go, sweetheart.”

Rolling her eyes, Holly sighs. “Yeah, sure, fine.” She squishes the peanut butter in between a loaf of WonderBread and the beer. “Whatever. Tell Mr. Healy I say hi.”

* * *

Holland pulls up to the curb outside the Comedy Store under a smoggy sky. A gaggle of kids lounge on a car a few steps away and eye him up and down as he grabs a scuffed briefcase from the backseat—one of them pops their gum at him. Teenage boys, an insidious little voice hisses in the back of Holland’s head. Look at them, in their stupid jeans, with their stupid hair _._ Holland bristles, glaring at the kid as he walks inside. The kid, who could care less, doesn’t actually see it.

At three o’clock in the afternoon, the comedy club is practically empty. A nervous stand-up in overlarge aviators doing a sound check crouches on the stage. Holland waves to the bartender—Ted? Or Tom, or something with a T—and points to the stairs; Ted/Tom nods and he makes his way across the floor, weaving between tables with chairs balanced on top of them upside-down.

“My wife, she’s like, uh… she’s a Russian doll!” the comedian titters into the mic, echoing in the room, “because she’s full of herself!”

Holland shakes his head. Jesus. Comedy.

He bounds up the stairwell, briefcase smacking against his leg. He knocks on the door: shave and a haircut. No answer. He frowns, getting ready to knock again, and harder, when the door swings open. Jackson stands in the threshold, wearing a faded t-shirt and jeans, with one eyebrow pointedly raised at Holland.

“You’re late.”

“My watch died, and the supermarket sucked, and I had to drop Holly off at home.” He half-shrugs, half-apologetic. “It’s been a morning, okay?”

“How’s she doing?”

“She’s pissed at me.” Holland points to the briefcase. “You gonna let me in or are we just gonna hang out in the hallway?”

Jackson rolls his eyes, holding the door open. Holland pushes past him into the apartment.

Tossing the briefcase onto the couch, Holland bends down to stare at the fish in their tank. “They’re looking better,” he says, tilting his head to make eye contact with a goldfish through the glass. “How’d you get those white spots to go away?”

“Heat and salt. Kills the parasites.” Jackson settles next to Holland.

One of the goldfish swims out from behind a cluster of colored rocks. Holland presses a finger to the glass, watching as the fish wriggles closer to them. “Hey there, lil’ guy. How’s the water?”

“Y’know, I named that one after you.”

Cue the warm and fuzzies. Holland glances over at his partner, flattered. “Seriously?”

“He kept bumping into the walls. It just fit.”

Holland straightens up with a glare. “Oh, ha ha. Very funny.”

Jackson grins. “Holly seemed to get a laugh out of it.”

“Seriously? You’re colluding against me with my own daughter?” Dropping to sit on the sofa, Holland pops the clasp of the briefcase. “That’s cold, man.” The months’ worth of files in the case are a pain in the ass to sift through, and he makes a mental note to try to organize them. At some point. If he remembers.

Jackson sits next to him, grabbing his glasses off the coffee table and taking the papers that Holland passes him. “These the estate details?”

Holland nods. “It checks out—if you factor out the part of the will that was forged, all the money goes to the cat.”

“Jesus.” Jackson shakes his head. “No wonder the third wife tried to kill him.”

“Here, look at this bit on line four—“ Holland points to the clause. Jackson squints through his lenses. “—‘I leave the entirety of my vast fortune to Fuzzikins, my only true companion, the one real creature that has ever shown me love for something other than my money…’ Can you believe this shit?”

“Who refers to their own fortune as ‘vast’?”

“Freaking Hollywood ‘eccentrics’.” Holland props his feet up on the table, fishing through his briefcase. A glossy photo of the Siberian cat on whose behalf they’d been hired nicks him and he swears loudly, sucking the tip of his finger.

“In the Bronx we just called it being nuts.” Leaning over him, Jackson plucks a cream envelope out of his hands. “Good thing that cat had nine lives,” he mutters as he pulls out the check inside.

Holland drops his head back against the couch cushions and groans, examining his papercut. A bead of blood oozes out, and a wave of nausea rolls over his stomach. “This is ridiculous. We’re not pet detectives. Next thing you know we’re gonna be camped outside a stable with a telephoto lens, trying to catch Mr. Ed doing the horizontal tango with his tennis instructor.”

“Horses don’t have sex lying down.”

“Wow, Doctor Doolittle, thanks for that life-changing revelation.”

Jackson slaps the envelope down on the arm of the couch. “Look, I’m not any happier about taking these cases than you are. But you wanna stay in business? We’ve gotta pay the bills.”

“Yeah, I know, but does it have to be animals? I think I’m getting an allergy.” Holland sniffs exaggeratedly.

“You wanna go back to fleecing little old ladies?”

“Fuck you, it wasn’t fleecing. And what would you suggest, we go back to punching people for money?”

Jackson leans back, eyeing Holland. They stare at each other for a long, tense second. Finally, Holland lets out a sigh.

“Shit, man, I’m too tired to fuckin’ argue right now.”

“Good. Wanna beer?”

“Fuck yes, please.”

Jackson retrieves a can of Lucky from the fridge and tosses it to Holland, grabbing himself a Coke. Holland raises one eyebrow, and Jackson shakes his head.

“Trying not to right now.”

“Suit yourself.” Shrugging, Holland pops the can’s tab and takes a swig. He sighs as the cool liquid hits his tongue. “Oh man, that’s good. Why is it so hot in November?” He taps his foot, leg bouncing up and down rapidly, barely even aware he’s doing it.

Jackson watches Holland swallow, eyes following the line of his throat before drifting down to his jumping knee. “You okay?”

Holland nods, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his eyes pinched shut. “Holly got invited to a party.”

“Hey,” Jackson brightens, “that’s nice.”

“Uh, no. It’s not.” His knee bobs even faster. “There’ll be boys there.”

A frown crosses Jackson’s face. “Oh.”

“You remember what you were like at fourteen?”

“Yeah.”

“So you see my problem.”

Jackson presses the Coke can to the back of his neck, letting it cool him down. “Holly’s a tough, smart kid, though. She can handle herself.”

Holland hums. “It’s not her I’m worried about, it’s…” he saws a hand vaguely through the air, “…just, everybody else.”

Jackson shoots him a sympathetic look. “I could teach her some self-defense…?”

Holland groans and drops his head into his hands.

“At least we’re done with the cat case,” Jackson backtracks. “We’ve got a couple of guys lined up willing to hire us—mostly infidelity stuff, but the pay ain’t bad.”

His voice fades into the background. Holland can feel nervous energy building in him, like it’s crawling up to burst from his mouth. Numb tingling is starting in his fingertips, his toes. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ignore the tears pricking behind the lids. Fuck, he’s just _tired_ , and this is so pathetic—

A solid weight lands on his knee, stopping its movement. He blinks. Jackson’s got his broad hand spread across it, gently holding him down.

“Hey.” Jackson drops his voice, catching Holland’s gaze. “You’ve gotta relax.”

He forces himself to nod. “I know,” he chokes out.

“You’re breathing too fast.”

“Am I?” He squints at Jackson. It feels like the air is too thin, and his vision is starting to blur. It’s like there’s a fat fist squeezing hard in the center of his chest. “Oh, God.” He wheezes.

Jackson wraps a hand around the back of his neck and carefully guides him down. “Put your head between your knees,” he says. “Breathe in for four, out for eight.”

Holland fights to sit up. “No, I just—“ he gasps, “I just need a drink—”

“Head down.” Jackson’s voice is gentle but firm as he stands from the couch. “I’m gonna get you a glass of water.”

“Water? Fuck that,” he whines, even as he bends to follow Jackson’s instructions. He shuts his eyes and tries to focus. In, out. In, out. Innn, ouuuuut.

The cushions dip as Jackson returns from the kitchen and sits next to him. He rubs a hand between Holland’s shoulder blades.

“I’m freaking out,” Holland mutters into his calves.

“Shhh.” Jackson strokes his thumb over the top of Holland’s spine. He can feel the muscles start to loosen. Breathing, slowly, gets a little easier. “You’re gonna be fine.”

“Is that your professional opinion?”

“Shut up, Holland.”

A few minutes pass. Holland lets out a shuddering breath. “Thanks.”

“Come up slowly.” Jackson keeps his hand on Holland’s back as he straightens himself.

“Can I lean on you?” Holland half-collapses into Jackson without waiting for an answer. He buries his face in Jackson’s shoulder. “Shit. This is embarrassing.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No.” He sits up and grabs his beer off the table, emptying it in one long gulp. “Yes. I don’t know.” Letting out a sigh, he falls back against the couch cushions and passes a hand over his face. He peers through his fingers at Jackson. “Am I a basket case?”

Jackson shakes his head. “Nah. It’s a bad time of year.”

“Isn’t that just the fucking truth,” Holland stands up and crosses the room. “November nineteenth already.” He tears a page off the word-of-the-day calendar and flashes it at Jackson.

“I read it when I woke up this morning.”

“ _Compunction_ ,” Holland reads aloud from the scrap of paper, “ _‘a feeling of deep regret, usually for some misdeed_ ’.”

“You wanna stay here for a couple of hours?” Jackson eyes him steadily. Holland knows what he’s offering. Wants it, too. They’ve been doing this for nearly a year, as long as they’ve been partners, and it’s good, it’s so fucking good, and it’s exactly what each of them needs, though neither of them wants to really put a name to it. Normally Holland would be all over him, but right now, staring at Jackson’s blue eyes, any kind of horniness turns over and dies, joining the heavy, empty feeling that’s been sitting in the pit of his stomach all week.

Holland can tell Jackson’s concerned about him, and the thought makes him feel like a loser, like some pathetic freak. He bristles; the idea of Jackson pitying him, _Jackson_ , with his fish tank and his slow smile and his stupid canvas shoes, makes him want to smash his fist into the wall. It’s even worse because there’s a part of him that just wants to lie there and let Jackson try to make him feel better, a part of him that wants to be taken care of or some other gay shit like that.

Holland grinds his teeth and crumples the page of the calendar in his fist. He tosses it over his shoulder, missing the trashcan entirely. “I should get back to Holly.”

He doesn’t miss the way Jackson’s face falls before he covers it up with a blank expression and a nod. “Sure. Of course.”

Guilt twitches through the churning mess of Holland’s stomach. He ducks his head at Jackson and grabs his briefcase off the table, stuffing papers back inside. “See you later.” He blurts out, as he already has one foot in the hallway. He can’t help it. Jackson shoots him a thin smile.

Holland hustles down the back stairs, face burning. He shakes his left arm, stiff in the humidity as he hurries through the empty club, and wonders if he can shake hard enough to finally fall apart. 


	2. Chapter 2

Holland becomes conscious of the sound of the phone ringing at the same time that he realizes he isn’t lying in bed. He blinks, eyes gummed uncomfortably. The ceiling stares back at him, stucco looming. There’s a dull ache in his back, and he rolls over onto his stomach with a wince. He does a quick, foggy rundown of the facts: he’s lying on the living room floor. He feels like he’s been hit by a truck, or possibly an entire convoy, and light is streaming in through the windows. Someone—Holly, obviously, because who else could it be—has thrown a blanket over him.

Through the skills of his chosen craft, he’s able to deduce that he may have been drinking.

The phone is still ringing. The sound makes him want to dig a hole through the foundation and bury himself alive.

Finally, the answering machine beeps. “Holland, it’s me.” Jackson’s recorded voice plays back gruffly. “We’re meeting a client at Dim Sum Delight at eleven. Name’s Robert Reed, he’s one of the cheating cases I was talking about yesterday.” There’s a long moment of silence, and Holland wonders if he’s hung up. “Try to actually get there on time. And take a shower.”

“Fuck,” Holland mutters into the rug. A carpet fiber catches on his tongue and he sputters as he drags himself up to sit on the couch. Cotton mouth feels like it’s reached down his throat and wrapped a mohair jacket around his tonsils, and he grabs blearily for a half-empty glass of water on the coffee table. He squints up at the clock as he gulps down the last of the luke-warm liquid. It’s ten. Thank fuck Jackson had picked the meeting location and not the client—the Chinese place was close, and there’d have been no way he could make it out to Long Beach or Torrance or wherever in time. Small mercies.

Peeling himself off the couch, Holland manages to throw himself into the shower and makes a half-assed effort to shave that gets as far as cleaning up his neck before he abandons it. Holly’s done a load of laundry, bless her tiny, definitely-still-mad-at-him heart. He’s gonna have to make this up to her. After this month, a voice whispers in the back of his head. Just get through this month.

As he slides into the driver’s seat of his car, doing up the buttons on a clean shirt, a shaft of sunlight glints cheerily off the hood of the neighbors’ Datsun and hits him smack in the eye. He winces and slides his sunglasses down as he fires up the engine.

He pulls into the parking lot of Dim Sum Delight at five minutes past eleven, which honestly is kind of a miracle. The Chinese restaurant is cool and dark inside, their central heating cranked way up, and Holland lets out a sigh of relief as he takes off his sunglasses and slips through the lobby and into the dining room. Not a single person is eating Chinese food at eleven o’clock on a Monday, and Holland scopes out the empty tables for his partner.

He catches sight of Jackson sitting in a booth by the far corner and slides in beside him. “Sorry I’m late, got stuck on the ten.”

Jackson nods to the man sitting across from them. He’s middle-aged, maybe forty-five, with thick greying hair and a square jaw. He’s wearing a pinstriped suit and a tie that might be silk but might be rayon. “March, this is Robert Reed. Mr. Reed, Mr. March.”

Holland reaches across the table to shake Reed’s hand, resisting the urge to make a quip about the Brady Bunch. The guy’s got a grip like a boa constrictor, and Holland has to shake out his fingers under the table after he pulls away. “Mr. March,” Reed says, voice deep, “Mr. Healy was just telling me all about you.”

“Was he,” Holland says, plastering on a smile. Jackson shoots him a look.

“I was informing Mr. Reed about our previous cases.”

“I need to know that I’m hiring someone with experience in handling delicate situations,” Reed fingered the menu on the table, tweaking a loose thread on the binding. “You see, I’m in a bit of a precarious position.”

“Tact and delicacy are our specialty.” Holland hails down a waitress. “Can I get a coffee?”

Reed folds his hands on the table. His nails, Holland notices, are carefully manicured, square and oddly pearl-pink. He glances at Jackson and sees that he’s eyeing them as well. “It’s about my wife, unfortunately,” he starts, and Holland tears his gaze away and settles in for the same story he’s heard a hundred times, letting his eyes glaze over just a little. “We’ve always had a good marriage, but lately she’s been distant, acting strange. She leaves the house at odd hours and comes home early in the morning, before the sun even comes up.” Reed frowns solemnly and leans forward, lowering his voice. “I want to be able to trust her….”

“—but you suspect that she might be unfaithful,” Holland finishes the sentence for him. Reed nods.

“Mr. Reed, do you love your wife?” Jackson asks.

“Of course.”

“An investigation like this can get pretty rough.” Jackson spread his hands on the table, palms up. “We might find nothing, you two go on your merry way... but we could turn up something you’d rather not know. Sometimes it’s easier to just go home and forget about the whole thing.”

“No. I need to know.” Reed frowns. “The thing is, gentlemen, I’m a partner at a pretty big real estate firm. If Donna is cheating on me, it’s more than just a matter of the heart—in a divorce, she could take as much as half of my shares from the company that _I_ started.” He shakes his head. “I can’t let that happen.”

There’s a long pause. Holland coughs. “Sorry, your wife is called Donna?”

“Yes.”

“Your wife is Donna Reed.” Jackson says, carefully, like he might have heard wrong.

Holland clears his throat. "And your name is... Robert Reed." 

Robert’s frown deepens. “Both coincidences, I assure you.”

The waitress arrives with Holland’s coffee. Holland takes the mug from her and gulps down as much as he can.

“I’m willing to pay double your usual rate,” Reed says, “if you can get me proof of whatever she’s doing in the next three days.”

Jackson raises his eyebrows, and Holland chokes on his coffee. “That’s a very short period of time,” Jackson says as Holland splutters into a napkin, “These kind of investigations usually take a couple of weeks, at least—”

“I don’t have any time to fool around. The company’s got a big acquisition going through on Thanksgiving, our biggest deal ever. This is huge for us, and if she’s sleeping around, I need to know so that I can serve her papers before then. I can’t risk that she might get those shares, not after the merger goes through. I’d lose millions.“

“First of all, Robert, we don’t _fool around_ , let’s get that straight.” Holland drops the wrinkled napkin to the table, bristling.

“Mr. Reed,” he corrects. Holland ignores him.

“This is a serious job, and we take it seriously. You came to us. So don’t insult the work we do, okay?”

Reed settles back against the vinyl booth. It creaks under him. “My apologies, Mr. March,” he says smoothly. “You can understand that I’m quite upset. I’m sorry if I offended you both.”

Holland opens his mouth, then shuts it. He nods. “Fine. Yeah. Okay, thank you.”

Reed reaches into his breast pocket and hands Holland a photograph. “Here’s a picture of Donna. Any information that you need to follow her, just let me know.”

Holland and Jackson examine the woman in the photo. She has shoulder-length auburn hair and a toothy smile. Her lacey dress is so short that, if the cameraman had been standing at a slightly lower angle, they could’ve been arrested for possessing pornography.

“If it’ll help, I can triple your rate.” He steeples his fingers under his lip. “Money is no object, you understand.”

"Triple?!"

“Mr. Reed, I think we have a deal.” Jackson reaches across the table, and Reed shakes his hand. Holland can see the other man’s knuckles go white.

“Excellent.” Reed gives Jackson’s hand a final pump up and down before releasing him. Holland points to the photo.

“Could you give us a description of her car?” 

* * *

The yellow Ferrari gleams where it’s parked outside a fancy-looking Beverly Hills boutique—the kind with a French name that nobody’s bothered to translate. Holland and Jackson, sitting in their car, eye it from their stakeout spot across the street. Holland, in the passenger’s seat, flips through his notebook. His hangover has slowly but surely faded, and his sunglasses are flipped up on top of his head.

“Okay, so we’ve got Donna Reed—no relation—age thirty-four, married for seven years to Robert, no formal occupation, penchant for miniskirts.” He glances up. “The woman’s a professional housewife and party-thrower.”

“Doesn’t sound like a bad job.” Jackson checks the exposure on his camera, pointing it out the window at La Belle Chaussette. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger.

Holland lets out a long breath through his nostrils, following Jackson’s line of sight. “She’s been in there for an hour and a half.”

Jackson shrugs. “Women like to shop. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Not all women.” Holland mutters. Jackson glances back at him. “Holly’s mom hated it,” he explains. “She’d complain the whole time we were in the store. Got married in a sweater and jeans.” He grins, eyes a little glassy at the memory. Then, he shakes his head, clearing it. “I’m sorry about last night, man.”

Jackson holds up a hand. “Already forgot it.”

“No, I mean, it was freaky, you shouldn’t have to deal with that shit.”

“I’m your partner.” Jackson says firmly. “It’s fine. It happens.”

Holland opens his mouth to say something, just as the door of La Belle Chaussette swings open with the chime of a bell. Both men’s attention snaps to the woman that walks out.

Donna Reed is wearing platform heels and a checkered dress, and carrying a tiny black box under one arm. She walks like a woman with somewhere to be. Jackson hefts the camera and snaps a quick succession of photos as she gets into her Ferrari. The car roars to life, and she pulls out into the road.

Holland reaches over and turns the keys in the ignition as Jackson fumbles to put the camera way. They peel out after her, careful to stay two cars behind.

“She’s getting onto Santa Monica,” Holland stares at a street sign as it whizzes past.

“Think she’s headed to the beach?”

Holland glances up at the sky through the open window. “Nice day for it.”

The yellow Ferrari tears down the 405 and onto Venice Boulevard. They follow after her as she slows, turns off onto a residential street. Jackson lets their pace go down to a crawl as they creep behind her. Donna stops and reverses into the driveway of a one-story house, the façade covered by a large eucalyptus tree.

They drive past, Jackson making a mental note of the number, and park on the curb a few houses down. Holland pulls out his notebook and jots down the address.

“Redwood Avenue.” He looks up at Jackson. “What’s on Redwood Avenue?”

“Let’s find out.”

The house is modest, whitewashed walls and little potted cactus plants on the stoop. Holland and Jackson creep around the side of the building, the camera cradled in Holland’s arms. The fence cuts their way into the backyard, protecting whoever owns the place’s privacy, but a window stretches across the wall, the shades pulled down.

Jackson points wordlessly to the bottom of the sill. The shade is crooked, not quite touching the bottom of the window frame, and they crouch down to peer through the crack.

“Shit,” Holland whispers, as both their eyes go wide, “guess we didn’t need more than three days after all.”

Donna is perched on the lap of a thin, red-haired man, the two of them sitting precariously on a chair. The man’s tie is wrapped around his face, a blindfold, and Donna—who’s down to the platform heels and her hoop earrings—is bobbing up and down on top of him. She bucks up as he thrusts and he lets out a muffled yelp that they can hear even through the window.

“Jesus,” Jackson taps Holland on the arm, “quick, get the pictures.”

Holland grabs the forgotten camera and snaps a few photos, pausing for only a second to adjust the aperture. “Easiest paycheck ever,” he mutters from behind the viewfinder. He turns to Jackson. “Motherfucker looks just like Howdy Doody.”

Howdy Doody grabs and squeezes Donna, face contorting as he hits his climax. Jackson and Holland both grimace, and Holland lowers the camera as Donna climbs off, undoing the man’s blindfold.

“Let’s get out of here,” he whispers, but Jackson holds up a hand to stop him.

“Wait a minute. She’s got that box.”

“So? It’s probably a present or something. Maybe she bought him a pair of handcuffs to go along with the blindfold.”

Jackson shakes his head. “C’mere, look.”

Holland ducks back down. Through the blinds, they watch as Donna pulls her dress over her head. Howdy Doody walks up behind her, kissing her on the neck, but she swats him away. She hands him the box, watching intently as he unwraps the bow holding it shut and lifts the lid.

Holland inhales sharply as Howdy Doody pulls a huge, clear bag of white powder out of the box, hefting the baggie in his hand. “Holy fuck.”

“Something makes me think that’s not baking soda.” Jackson mutters.

Holland raises the camera and takes a picture. He tries to take another, and the camera lets out a sad, empty click. “Shit. Out of film.”

Jackson jerks his head up. “ _Now_ let’s get the Hell out of here.”

* * *

 

Red light filters out from under the closed door of Holland’s bathroom. Inside, he stands over the tub, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he lifts photo paper from its chemical bath into a tray of cold water. Jackson lays the developed prints on the counter, squinting at them through his reading glasses.

“Not bad for a morning’s work, right?” Holland chatters, wiping his wet fingers on his slacks. “I mean, that was the easiest case I’ve ever had.”

“Hmmm.” Jackson hums absently. He runs a finger over the corner of one photograph, where it curls, drying. Donna, head thrown back, frozen mid-ride, looks almost angry.

There are other pictures on the roll. Holland, absently tearing through the negatives to get them developed and dry as fast as possible, has skipped over one that catches Jackson’s eyes: the framework of the March’s rebuilt house, in stark black and white, a bulldozer parked next to the front door. The house is half-finished in the photo, which is clearly a few weeks old—the building is nearly up and finished, now. Jackson considers the picture.

“One and done in less than twenty-four hours.” Holland flips a photo over in the chemicals. “That deserves a drink.”

“Sure.”

Holland glances over at Jackson. “What’s eating you?”

“Huh?” Jackson looks up. “Oh. Nothing.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Jackson holds up another photo—Donna and the red-headed guy, the two of them staring at the contents of the black box. Motherfucker really does look like Howdy Doody. “What were they doing with so much cocaine?”

“I assume the cocaine was what they were doing.”

“Very funny.” Jackson lays the photo back with the others. “Do you think Reed knows?”

“What? Knows that his wife is a coke fiend?” Holland snorts. “They’re rich. They’re both probably doing it.”

“I think we should include it with the other pictures, when we show them to him.”

Holland turns away from the chemicals and cocks his head at Jackson. He studies the tension in the other man’s shoulders. “You’re really hung up on this.”

Shrugging, Jackson tries to play it off. “I’d wanna know,” he says, “if it was my wife.”

There’s a real… something behind that. Holland doesn’t know much about Jackson’s ex-wife—other than the fact that he has one, that she’d taken the house, and that Holland sort of vicariously hates her for making Jackson’s life less than pleasant. Still riding high on the buzz of a closed case, he crosses the distance between him and Jackson and kisses him, crowding him back against the door.

Jackson raises an eyebrow at him when they break apart. “You’re in a better mood.”

“I like getting paid.” Holland nudges his leg in between Jackson’s thighs and kisses him again, long and dirty. One of Jackson’s broad hands sneaks up under his shirt to wrap around his ribs and he moans at the touch.

It’s all going great, kissing and touching and fumbling against the door, until Jackson pulls back. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks.

Holland freezes for a second, then explodes. “Are you kidding me?” He bites out. “Am I okay? I’ve got you pushed up against the fucking wall and you’re asking me if I’m okay? Get the fuck out of here with that bullshit.”

Jackson holds up his hands defensively. “Woah, hold up, I just meant—”

“You think just ‘cause I had some kind of freak out in front of you means I’m a delicate fucking flower? I don’t need your pity, Healy.”

“No one’s pitying you.” Jackson says, and fuck him, with that calm, level voice, like he’s talking down a spooked horse. Fuck that. Holland grinds his teeth as Jackson picks up a photo and shoves it at him. “I get it, okay? I get that it’s a bad time. I’m just trying to treat you like a fucking human being.”

Holland looks at the photo. The house and bulldozer stare back at him, almost mocking. Holland brings his gaze back up to Jackson. “Where the fuck did this come from?”

“How should I know?”

“I don’t want this.” They stare at each other for a long, tense moment, Holland’s chest heaving, breathing hard from his outburst.

“Dad! I’m home!”

Holly’s voice rings out from the kitchen, breaking the silence. Holland flings the photo into the tub and pushes past Jackson, out of the bathroom. Light streams in and Jackson has to blink as he saves the picture from the cold water, drying it on a towel.

Holland rounds the corner to see Holly digging through the fridge, backpack still on. “Hey, sweetheart,” he calls out, forced cheerful. “Throw me the whiskey?”

Holly glances up at her father and reluctantly passes him the bottle, grabbing herself a YooHoo. Holland leans heavily against the counter and pours himself a generous finger. “How was school?”

“Fine.” Holly makes a face. “It smells like cat pee in here. Are you using the bathroom as a dark room again?”

Jackson wanders into the kitchen. Holland doesn’t make eye contact. “Hey, Holly,” he says.

She shoots him a small smile. “Hey, Mr. Healy.”

“Jackson was just leaving,” Holland snaps, then turns heel, stalking out of the kitchen and into his bedroom, slamming the door. Holly and Jackson both stare after him as he goes.

Holly gulps down a mouthful of YooHoo to hide the worried look on her face. “Did you guys have a fight?” She asks.

Jackson shakes his head. “Your dad’s just having a hard time right now.”

“Yeah.” Holly offers him a sip.

“No, thanks.”

She drinks long, thoughtful, like something’s weighing on her mind, then smacks the bottle down on the counter. “I’m having a hard time too, you know,” she blurts out. Her lower lip trembles a little, and she bites down on it.

Jackson shoots her a sympathetic look. “I know, kid.”

He isn’t expecting it when she throws herself off of the bar stool and hugs him, wrapping her arms around his middle and burying her face in his shirt. Jackson, unsure of what to do, pats her on the back awkwardly. “I miss Mom too,” she mutters, “but I’m not being an ass about it.”

“That’s just how he deals with things.”

Holly breaks away, wiping her eyes gruffly with one sleeve. “I know.” She sniffs, then rolls her eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I’m being a big baby about this.”

“Hey, no,” Jackson says firmly. “You’re not. And if he gets worse…” he gestures to Holland’s door, “…just call me and I’ll come over. Okay?”

Holly shoots him a watery smile. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Jackson reaches into his jacket pocket and retrieves the photo of the house. “By the way, I think this is yours.”

Holly takes the picture from him. “Yeah, it is. I stole Dad’s camera. I wanted some photos from before it’s finished.”

“I figured.” Jackson pats her on the shoulder. “I’m gonna head out, okay? Keep an eye on him.”

“Sure.” Holly nods.

Jackson’s in his car and has his keys in the ignition when she comes running out the front door a minute later. “Mr. Healy! Wait!” She calls after him, skidding to a halt by his window. She hands him the photo.

“You can have it,” she says, breathless. “I can always make another print.”


	3. Chapter 3

Holland sits on the floor of the closet, a cigarette in one hand and his glass of whiskey in the other. He takes a sip, he takes a puff, and he tries not to lose his shit.

 _Breathe in for four, out for eight_ , Jackson’s voice whispers in his head. Holland doesn’t want to listen to Jackson right now, even figment-of-his-imagination-Jackson.

 _The breathing thing is still a good idea_ , the voice says.

“Shut up, Healy,” Holland mutters, and swallows the last of the whiskey.

Here’s a knock on the bedroom door. “Dad?” Holly calls from outside. Holland groans and drops his head between his knees. “Dad, come out of there.”

“No, thanks, I’m just gonna stay here for the next ten years.”

“I made you a peanut butter sandwich.”

Holland pauses, then sighs. “I’ll be out in a second.”

She’s waiting outside the door when he gathers himself enough to leave the closet. “I didn’t actually make you the sandwich,” she admits, “but I could, if you still want it.”

“Please.” He follows her into the kitchen, and sits at the counter while she gathers the WonderBread and the jar of Skippy.

“So,” she eyes her dad as she wields the butter knife, “why are you angry at Mr. Healy?”

“I’m getting the third degree, now?” He takes the plate from her and bites into the sandwich.

Holly shoots him a look. “Obviously.”

“Sweetheart,” Holland says through a mouthful of peanut butter, “it’s a grown-up thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Try me.”

“We had a, a…” He waves his sandwich vaguely, “a professional disagreement.”

“That sounds like bullshit.”

“Jesus, language!” Holland swallows. Holly rolls her eyes.

“He’s trying to help you.”

Holland glowers. “I don’t need help.”

“He’s. Trying. To. Help. You.” Holly repeats. “Let him.”

Holland takes an aggressive bite of his sandwich. “Since when are you Dear Abby?”

“Since now.” She crosses her arms on the counter and rests her chin on them. “How’s that taste?”

“Like sticky cardboard.”

“Same as always, then.”

“You shouldn’t be the one giving me advice.” Holland chews. “This isn’t really how this whole thing is supposed to work.”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You could be worse.” Holly reaches out and lays her hand on top of her dad’s. “We’ve just got to make it through the next couple of days.”

Holland forces a smile. “Yeah, sweetheart. I know.” He squeezes her hand.

“So, you’ll talk to Mr. Healy?” She asks.

“Sure.”

“Pinky promise?”

He links his little finger with hers. “Pinky promise.” 

* * *

 

Jackson opens the door before Holland can even knock. It gives Holland an uneasy feeling of déjà vu.

“Holly says I’m being an idiot,” he announces, barreling right into things—apologies suck anyway, so he figures he might as well just steamroll through it as best he can—“and she’s usually right about that kind of thing, so, yeah. I shouldn’t have yelled at you, it was stupid, I’m stupid, you already know that and I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

Jackson levels his gaze at him. “You wanna come in?”

“Absolutely.”

Holland closes the door behind him and follows Jackson into the kitchen. Jackson leans his back against the sink, arms crossed over his chest. “You know I don’t pity you.”

Holland nods.

“And I don’t think you’re weak or pathetic.”

“Yeah.” Holland sighs. “I just can’t help but feel like—”

“I know.” Jackson cuts him off. “I get that. But I’m telling you right now, and this holds for all of the forseeable fuckin’ future, okay: _I_ _don’t._ ”

Holland slumps a little, shoulders relaxing. “Okay.” He pulls an envelope out of the jacket of his sport coat. “We should probably get on with the job, then, now that’s out of the way.”

Jackson claps him on the back as he crosses to the living room. “How’d they turn out?”

“Not too bad,” Holland says, spreading the photos out across the coffee table. “I developed a couple more after I. You know. After I chilled out.” He stabs his finger at one—Donna and Howdy Doody, caught in carnal embrace, the black box resting on the table behind them. “I figure we could open with this one and then flip through, kinda get the moving pictures version…” he traces his finger over the others, following the progression of the two figures, “…and then end it with the coke.”

Jackson picks up the final photo, squinting at it from arm’s length. “Pass me my glasses.” Taking the lenses from Holland, he holds the picture closer to his face, a frown growing the longer he looks. He shakes his head. “There’s still something bugging me about it.”

“What is there to bug you?” Holland examines the photo over Jackson’s arm. “Just two folks getting their freak on with a little assistance from Mr. Blow. Happens all the time.”

“I don’t know.” Jackson taps the center of the frame. “If they’re just using, why didn’t they snort some then and there?”

Holland shrugs. “Maybe they’d already done a line before they started bumping uglies.”

“Nah, we saw him take off the bow. That thing was shut tight.” The ribbon dangles off of Howdy Doody’s hand, frozen along with his approving expression. His head blurs a little, caught mid-nod. Jackson turns to look at Holland. “I don’t think that was just a quickie fuck, Holland. We saw a drug deal go down.” He waves the photo. “And we caught it on camera.”

* * *

 

Donna going up, Donna going down. Going up, going down. Howdy Doody’s face, contorted under the blindfold, mouth open, mouth closed. Open. Closed.

Reed flips through the photos, face blank. His eyes are steely, playing over the black-and-white images of his wife and the other man. He puts them face down on the table and rests his index fingers, steepled, under his nose. Letting out a long breath, he stares at the white backs of the photos intensely.

“We’re very sorry, Mr. Reed,” Holland says, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag.

Reed nods. “Well, you did warn me.”

“Not to pry,” Jackson says delicately, turning the last photo to rest face-up, “but do you happen to know this man?”

Reed shakes his head. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

“And, uh, the drugs,” Jackson points to the bag of coke, finger resting on the glossy surface of the picture, “were you aware that your wife was—”

“I’m afraid that’s really none of your business, Mr. Healy.” Reed says flatly. He takes the photo from Jackson and flips it back over, sliding them back into their manila envelope. “We’re done here.” He pulls a checkbook and a fountain pen from his pocket, writing in fluid cursive. He rips the check out and hands it to Holland. “The second half of your fee. Thank you for your help, gentlemen.”

“The thanks are mutual.” Holland folds the check up and stuffs it in his pocket, reaching out and shaking Reed’s hand. He hides his wince at the other man’s grip. Jackson holds out his hand as well, but Reed only nods curtly, taking the envelope of photos, and turns on his heel, striding out of the Chinese restaurant.

Jackson glares after him. “I don’t trust that guy.”

“You’re worried the check’s gonna bounce?”

He shoots Holland a look. “I mean in general. There’s something funny about this whole thing.”

Holland shrugs. “His wife’s cheating on him, he wants a divorce. Nothing funny about that.”

“He didn’t even seem to care about the coke. Wouldn’t you care if your wife was selling coke?”

“Man, you gotta let that go.” Holland stands and shimmies into his jacket, cigarette dangling off his lip. “Case closed, not our problem anymore.” He pulls the check out and unfolds it, flashing it to his partner with a grin. “Now let’s go cash this bad boy.”

* * *

 

Under the low hum of a ventilation system click steady slow tick tocks, every second bringing the little hand closer to the six. Holly stares at the face of the clock on the classroom wall, ignoring the blackboard beside it. About half the class has their eyes trained on the same spot as their teacher drones on.

“Can anybody tell me why Scout stops being afraid of Boo?” Mrs. Markt asks, pushing her cats eye spectacles up her nose. “Anyone? Holly, how about you?”

“Huh?” Holly tears her eyes away from the clock. “Oh… um, because he left her and Jem and Dill presents in the tree. And because he saves them at the end.”

“Boo is creepy,” one of the other kids in class chimes in from the third row of desks. “He was, like, following them around.”

Holly turns around in her seat. “Yeah, but he’s not a bad guy. He was trying to keep them safe.”

“He stabbed his dad with scissors!”

“Well, maybe he had it coming.”

“This book is stupid.” Someone else mutters from the back of the room.

Mrs. Markt clears her throat. “Back on topic,” she announces, “what’s the symbolism of the fact that the children are attacked by Bob Ewell on Halloween? Does anyone have an answer for that?”

The class is silent. The little hand, twenty seconds away from six, has everyone’s attention.

“Anyone?”

The bell rings out, signaling the end of the day, and the students jump out of their seats, immediately bursting into chatter. Mrs. Markt’s sigh is drowned out by the shuffle of books and papers.

“Don’t forget, we’re having a test first thing on Monday!” She shouts, before giving up entirely. She grabs an apple off her desk and takes a bite. “Happy Thanksgiving, you little bastards,” she mutters as the kids rush out into the hallway.

Holly grabs her backpack out of her locker, shoving her books into it and throwing it over one shoulder. She closes the door and finds Jessica waiting on the other side, arms crossed over her chest.

Jessica raises her eyebrows expectantly. “So? What’d he say?”

Holly shakes her head. “No dice.” She mimics her dad’s voice: “He was all like, ‘No boy parties, boys are the worst!’ It’s like he doesn’t even trust me not to let some dumb guy try to put his hand up my shirt.”

“Ugh.” Jessica rolls her eyes. “That’s so lame.”

“Tell me about it.” The two girls heft their backpacks as they walk towards the main doors of the school.

“You should totally just sneak out,” Jessica says knowingly. “All you’ve gotta do is pretend you aren’t feeling well and wanna go to bed early, then stuff some pillows under the covers and hop out through a window. My sister used to do it all the time.”

Holly makes a face. “I don’t know. If my dad found out, he’d be pissed.”

“Well, duh, the whole point is that he doesn’t find out.” They step out into the light of the afternoon sun. Other students mill around, excitement about the holiday from school palpable. “Look, think about it. Because if you don’t come, everyone’s gonna think you’re a total goody-two-shoes nerd.” Holly punches Jessica on the arm. “Ow!”

“I’m not a nerd.” Holly sets her jaw and nods, her mind made up. “Okay. I’ll be there.”

“Excellent.” Jessica high-fives her. “See if you can steal some of your dad’s booze, too, my parents just put this dumb padlock on their liquor cabinet—Oh, hi, Mr. March!”

Jessica waves and Holly spins around to see behind her. Sure enough, Holland is leaning against his car, sunglasses on and tie loose, parked on the sidewalk outside the school and, thankfully, too far away to have heard their conversation. She lets out a sigh of relief.

Holland waves back. “Hey, kids!” He points to the inside of the car and Holly can see Jackson sitting in the passenger’s seat. “Look who tagged along.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” Holly mutters to Jessica under her breath, before turning and bounding down the steps of the school. “Why are you guys here?” She asks. Holland grins.

“We just got paid, and you’re technically on vacation as of…” he checks his watch, “…five minutes ago, so I figured I’d take you out for ice cream.” He jerks his thumb at Jackson over his shoulder. “Mr. Congeniality over here’s idea.”

“Wicked.” Holly smiles and slides into the backseat, throwing her backpack on the floor of the car. “Hey, Mr. Healy.”

Jackson smiles at her from the front. “Hi, Holly.”

Holland settles behind the wheel and they pull away from the curb. “Good day at school?” He asks in the rearview mirror.

Holly shrugs. “It was okay.”

“How’s Jessica taking it that you’re not gonna be at her party?”

“Oh,” Holly glances out the window, biting her lower lip, “she’s cool with it.” 


	4. Chapter 4

They stop the car at a park and find an ice cream truck. Holly, armed with a handful of quarters, marches up to place their order while Holland and Jackson stake out a picnic table.

Holland watches her through his sunglasses. “I still think she’s angry that I’m not letting her go to this thing at Jessica’s.” He muses. Jackson shrugs.

“She seems okay with it to me.”

“She was begging me for days and now, poof! No more complaining, no bargaining.”

“Maybe she just came to terms with it.” Jackson says, as Holly strides towards them.

“Okay,” she says, juggling the three ice creams, “Dad, you get a creamsicle, there’s a plain vanilla cone for Jackson, and a strawberry shortcake bar for me.” She doles out the frozen treats.

“Mmm,” Holland hums as he takes a bite of the orange ice cream, “that’s the good shit right there.” Jackson licks carefully at his soft serve as Holly nibbles the cake crumble coating off of her popsicle.

“So,” Holly asks as she reaches the strawberry center, “what case did you guys just finish?”

“Well, we put the cat one in the bag on Sunday,” Jackson says, “And we had to take some photos yesterday, but we dropped them off this morning.”

“Cool.” Holly leans forward across the picnic table. “Hey, could you guys take a case for my friend Diana? She thinks her boyfriend is cheating on her with Patty Millwood.”

“Your friends are thirteen, thirteen year-olds can’t have boyfriends, therefore Diana’s boyfriend doesn’t exist and can’t be seeing Patty Millwood behind her back.” Holland sticks the wooden creamsicle stick between his teeth. “Case closed.”

Holly rolls her eyes. “Oh my God, dad, you’re such a square.”

“Good detective, though,” he counters. “Right, Jackson?”

Jackson ignores him, craning his neck to stare at something behind Holland’s head. Holland waves a hand in front of his face. “Hello? Earth to Healy?”

“Shut up for a second and don’t turn around,” Jackson says, voice level, “but I think Donna Reed just pulled up behind you.”

“Like from TV?” Holly asks, as Holland turns around to look over his shoulder. Jackson sighs.

“No, different lady with the same name.” He pokes Holland hard in the shoulder and he spins back around, mouthing ‘Ow’. “I just told you not to look. What’s wrong with you?”

“That’s definitely her car,” Holland says. Indeed, the yellow Ferrari is parked just a few cars down from theirs. The driver’s side door opens and Donna gets out, wearing silver knee-high boots, a paisley smock, and a huge pair of dark sunglasses. She glances around furtively and ducks behind the ice cream truck.

“She just got out.” Jackson huffs. Holland stands up and comes to sit next to him. “Holly, stay right there.”

“What do you think she’s doing?” Holland asks.

Donna steals out from behind the van. In her arms is another black box, with a neat bow on top. Jackson sets his jaw.

“I think I can guess.” He stands and tosses the end of his cone in a nearby trash can. “Come on, into the car.”

“What? Seriously?” Holland says, as he and Holly hurry after Jackson. The three of them get into the car as Donna revs her engine. Jackson gets behind the wheel as Holland glances back at Holly in the backseat. “Sweetheart, put on your seatbelt.”

“What’s going on? Why are we following that lady?” Holly leans forward. “Is she a bad guy?”

“We just need to ask her some questions,” Jackson says, as they pull out onto the road after her. Holly glances at her dad, who shrugs.

“Don’t ask me, it’s his idea.”

The black convertible speeds along, three cars behind Donna’s yellow Ferrari. Holly leans out the back window, hair blowing out behind her as she squints into the sun.

“Holly, please put your head back inside,” Holland says, glancing back at her with one hand on the dash.

“I’m just trying to see what her car looks like,” she shouts into the wind.

“Little help here?” Holland asks Jackson.

“Listen to your father,” Jackson says, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Reluctantly, Holly ducks back into the car, cranking the window up. “Why do you need to talk to her?”

“That’s a pretty good question—hey Jackson, why _do_ we need to talk to the nice young lady that we’re essentially stalking at this point?”

Jackson shoots Holland a glare. “Because there’s more going on here than we’re being told.”

“Oh right. Of course.” Holland cranes his neck into the back. “Because Jackson has a hunch with literally no basis in reality.”

Jackson slams his palm down on the wheel. “You know what, March, I’m getting real sick of your attitude right now—”

“The case is over! I mean, Jesus Christ, it’s like you’re obsessed with it—”

“ _Guys_!” Holly cries out, “She’s turning left!”

The brakes squeal as Jackson takes the corner at twice the speed limit, the smell of burning rubber scorching the air as the tires leave skid marks across the asphalt. Holland, not wearing his seatbelt, thwacks his knee into the dashboard, clutching the grab handle. “Fuck!”

Holly glances out at the narrow, industrial alley they’ve headed down. “Where are we?”

“Shit,” Jackson swears, hitting the brakes as the Ferrari slows to a halt, hazard lights on. “She clocked us.”

“She what?” Holland looks up from where he’s nursing his knee. Through the windshield, Donna heaves herself out of her car, slamming the door behind her. “Oh, shit.”

Donna marches towards them as Jackson gets out of the car, holding up his hands defensively. “Ma’am, if you’ll let me explain—”

She kicks the front wheel of the convertible with one high-heeled foot. “Why the fuck are you freaks following me?”

Holland, reluctantly, emerges from the passenger’s side. “Mrs. Reed, we just want to talk with you.”

“You know my name, too? What in the goddamn shitting fuck.” She kicks the tire again. In the backseat Holly leans forward, staring at her goggle-eyed.

“We only wanna ask you a couple of questions,” Jackson says. “It’s about your husband, Robert.”

Donna looks between the two of them, realization dawning. Her mouth drops open and she points a finger at Jackson. “I saw you two across the street from La Belle Chausette yesterday. You’re the shit-stick goons Robbie’s had trailing me all over town!”

Holland looks offended. “We’re private investigators, not goons.”

Donna lets out a hysterical laugh, digging through her purse. She snatches her car keys and lunges for the hood of the convertible.

“Woah woah woah!” Jackson grabs her by the wrist. “Not the car!”

“Let go of me, you fucking gorilla!” Donna wrenches her arm out of his grip. “You people are vampires! Mosquito motherfuckers!” She spits at Holland, who jumps away, wiping the spray off his face with the back of his hand and a disgusted expression.

“Hey!” Holly stands abruptly, hackles up as she glares at the other woman. “What the heck did they ever do to you?”

Donna turns to the two men. “Why the fuck do you have a kid with you?”

“Technically we’re off the clock right now,” Holland shrugs.

Donna turns back to Holly, color rising in her cheeks. “You wanna know what your two daddies did to me?” She whips off her oversize sunglasses. “How’s this look to you, you little brat?”

Holly recoils. “Holy crap.”

A huge bruise mars the left side of Donna’s face, spreading out purple and yellow from a softball-sized black eye. The eye itself, where it’s not swollen shut, is blood-shot, vessels burst. She swivels to face Holland and Jackson. “Jesus,” Holland winces, going pale. Jackson’s face tightens and closes off.

“I hope he paid you real good,” she hisses.

Jackson takes a step forward, shoulders square. “Did he hit you?”

Donna laughs. “No, I walked into a goddamn door,” she answers sarcastically. “Of course he fucking hit me, he found out I was sleeping around on him.”

“You can’t go back to him,” Holly blurts out. The three grown-ups turn to stare at her.

“Oh, that’s cute. Little Nancy Drew over here.” Donna shoots Holly a look. “I’m not. I’m getting out of this town, one last sale and I’ll have enough to book it back to my mom’s place in Cleveland.”

“Sale?” Holland asks.

Donna jerks her thumb back at the car. “You already know, I saw those smutty little photos you bastards took of me and Roy.”

“The cocaine,” Holland says, realization clicking into place.

“Holy shit,” Holly exclaims, “are you a drug dealer?”

“I told you so,” Jackson mutters.

“That box I’ve got in the back of my car is the last of the blow that Robbie has in the country,” Donna explains. “He thought I didn’t have a clue, but I knew he was stashing it in that ice cream truck. So I’m taking it, I’m selling it, I’m gonna fuck him one last time before he can say bye-bye to my ass forever.”

Jackson holds up a hand. “Wait,” he says, “so you’re telling us that the drugs belong to your husband?”

“Soon to be ex-husband,” Donna shrugs, “but yeah. Of course. Who else did you think they belonged to?”

Holland settles down on the hood of the car. “What about the company? The merger?”

Donna looks puzzled. “I don’t know anything about a merger. But the company—I mean, the real estate thing is just a cover. Robbie's been importing coke into the country for the last four years.”

Holland turns to slowly look at Jackson. Their eyes lock.

“Shit.”

* * *

 

“So, wait. Let me get this straight.”

Holly sits cross-legged on the hood of the convertible. Donna, standing with her arms crossed over her chest, listens, nodding occasionally.

“Your husband owns a real estate company, but it’s not a _real_ real estate company, it’s a cover to hide that he’s selling a ton of drugs,” Holly counts off on her fingers. “And _you’ve_ been skimming cocaine off the top for yourself, but he found out that you’ve been having an affair, so now you’re trying to sell _more_ of his drugs that you stole so that you can leave him.”

Donna pauses to take all that in, then nods. “Yeah, basically, that’s pretty much it.”

Standing off to the side, Holland groans. Jackson throws him a sympathetic look.

“Every time I try to be a normal dad she ends up meeting porn stars or murderers or drug dealers,” he complains. “Does the universe just hate me? What am I doing wrong?”

“Mostly I think it’s just bad timing,” Jackson mutters. “What do you think?”

“What, about her?” Holland waves a hand at Donna. “She’s nuts.”

“You don’t believe her?”

“I don’t buy that her husband’s some kind of drug kingpin, that’s for sure.” He glances at her where she’s talking to Holly. “I mean, maybe the guy’s selling some shit on the side, but the whole company can’t be involved. That’d be crazy.”

Jackson raises his eyebrows. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Wallcott and Reed Real Estate?” Holly asks loudly, and the boy’s attention goes to her. “Your husband owns that?”

“Well yeah, duh, his name is right there in the title.” Donna rolls her eyes at Jackson and Holland. “Are you two done with whatever you’re talking about, or am I going to be babysitting your tag-a-long all night?”

“Dad, those are the guys!” Holly exclaims.

“Sorry, sweetheart, what guys?” Holland asks.

She spreads her hands. “The guys building the house! That’s the company!”

“Is it?” Holland scratches his head. “I legitimately don’t know, I just sign the checks…”

“Oh my God,” Holly rolls her eyes. “Their name is on like, all of the construction equipment.”

“Okay, so sue me, I don’t have an unhealthy obsession with bulldozers,” Holland crosses to sit in the passenger’s seat of the car. He grabs a flask out of the glove compartment and takes a swig. “What’s the big deal?”

“It’s probably just a coincidence,” Donna says, exasperated. “They work on half the new homes built in the city, you’re nothing special.”

“Well, thanks for that.” Holland toasts to her with the flask.

She grimaces at him. “Look, can I go now? I’m supposed to be dropping this off with my guy, and if I’m not there before seven he’s gonna freak out.”

Jackson steps in. “I think we should go with you.”

“ _What_?” Donna and Holland ask in unison.

“Why?” asks Donna.

“Absolutely not,” says Holland.

“Look,” Jackson holds up his hands, “hear me out. You just stole a pretty large bag of coke from your husband. If he did that to your face just for cheating on him—” he gestures to her black eye, “—then what do you think he’ll do when he finds out you took the last of his stash?”

Donna goes pale. “I’m not gonna be in LA long enough to find out,” she says, shaking her head as she backs towards her car.

“Let us come along, just until you leave town,” Jackson pleads. “It’s our fault this is happening in the first place, it’s the least we can do.”

“Um, actually, no, it’s definitely her fault,” Holland counters, lighting a cigarette and stuffing it angrily between his lips. Jackson glares at him. “What? We just did our job, okay, a job which, might I remind you, we are no longer being paid for.”

Jackson narrows his eyes at Holland. “You know who else was just doing their jobs?”

Holland coughs on a lungful of smoke and shakes his head. “No. Nuh uh—”

“The Nazis.”

“God fucking _damn it_ , Healy.” Holland smacks his hand down on the dash, then points at Donna. “Okay, fine, we’re gonna escort you to your kingdom of fine white powder, at great personal loss and risk to ourselves.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Donna says.

Holly hops off the hood of the car. “Can I come along?” she asks hopefully.

“Absolutely not. Drawing a line here.” Holland shuts her down. Her smile drops, and she looks to Jackson expectantly.

He shakes his head. “I’m with your dad on this one, kid,” he says. “We’re dropping you home.”


	5. Chapter 5

The four of them arrive back at the March house in their respective cars, Jackson and Donna in the Ferrari while Holland and Holly take the convertible. Holland walks his daughter to the door, one hand on her shoulder.

“…But it’s not like it’s a school night,” Holly protests as Holland steers her through the living room. “I’ll stay in the car, I promise!”

“It’s going to be way too dangerous. I’m not letting you get mixed up in any kinda drug stuff, murder is one thing but that shit’s another entirely.”

Holly cocks her head. “That seems odd, priority-wise.”

“Don’t question it, honey.” He kneels as she sits down on the couch. “If there’s any kind of emergency, you go next door to Mrs. MacReady’s and use her phone to call 911. If you go over to Mrs. MacReady’s and she’s finally had that heart attack, go to Mrs. Burton’s house and use her phone instead.”

“Can I stay up and watch Grimsley?” Holly grabs a pillow and hugs it to her stomach. Holland fights a frown.

“So long as you don’t think any of the movies are gonna give you nightmares.”

She rolls her eyes. “Seriously, Dad, I’m nearly fourteen, I’m not a baby.”

“Okay, okay…” Holland stands, shrugging. “I trust you, stay safe, there’s bread in the breadbox—”

“I know, I was there when you bought it.”

Holland presses a kiss to her temple. “I’ll be home soon.” He jogs to the door, opens it, pauses. He gestures to the knob.

“Lock this, okay? Just in case. And don’t open for anybody who isn’t me or Mr. Healy.”

“Yes, Dad,” Holly recites.

Jackson raises an eye at Holland as he shuts the door behind him. “She put up a fight?”

“Nah, she’s probably just gonna eat all the tortilla chips and give herself nightmares with those dumb movies on TV.” Holland shakes his head. “We going or what?”

“Yeah, pile on in.” Holland climbs into the back seat of the Ferrari as Jackson takes shotgun. In the driver’s seat, Donna checks the dashboard clock nervously.

“It’s already six,” she drums her fingers on the wheel. “We’ve gotta book it.”

Holland pushes the black box of cocaine over to the other side of the backseat with two careful fingers and fishes the flask out of his sports jacket. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Where are we headed?” Jackson asks as they speed down Laurel Canyon Boulevard.

“Sherman Oaks,” Donna replies, rolling through a stoplight at an empty intersection.

“Ugh. The Valley? Really?” The lid of Holland’s flask clinks as he screws it back on, vodka burning comfortingly down his throat but only adding to the nauseous anxiety rolling in his stomach.

Donna shoots him a glare in the rear-view mirror. “There’s an abandoned drive-in, Robbie sends his guys there sometimes when they need to make a hand-off. It’s private.”

“And that’s where you’re meeting the buyer?”

She nods aggressively. “Seven o’clock on the dot. If you two shitstains haven’t already made me late.”

“It’s only a twenty minute drive!” Holland protests. “If anything, you’re gonna be early.”

“Twenty-five minutes,” she mutters.

“So you trust this guy?” They turn onto Moorpark. Jackson eyes the speedometer as the car speeds up.

“Roy?” Donna laughs, the sound harsh. “No way. But he knows Robbie, and if he was gonna rat me out, he would have done it already.” She shakes her head. “Robbie still might knock out a few of his teeth, though, on account of the whole bingo-bango-bongo. But that’s not gonna be my problem.”

“Bingo-bango- _what_?” Jackson asks, incredulous. In the backseat, Holland rolls his eyes with a groan.

“You’re selling the blow to Howdy Doody?” He makes a face. “Seriously? That’s why you were sleeping with him?”

Donna shrugs. “I did what I had to do to know he wouldn’t screw me over.”

“Yeah, I think you two already have screwing covered.” Holland leans back against the leather seats and lights a cigarette, sharing a look with Jackson.

* * *

 

The Grand Royale Drive-In has been abandoned for nearly three years, and it shows. The one hundred and eight foot tall screens are streaked with dead bugs and bird shit, rips and tears in the fabric where it’s stretched thin at the corners of the high metal frame. The yellow Ferrari drives through the rusted gate and parks beside an empty concession stand. The glass in the stand’s windows is broken, and a yellowing paper sign on the door reads “EMPLOYEES ONLY—NOT FOR PATRON USE.”

A second car is parked under the nearest screen, a pale blue Ford Pinto. Donna gets out of the car, Jackson and Holland following warily behind her. She waves to the other car.

“Hey Roy!” She shouts. “C’mere!”

A pale head with a shock of red hair emerges from the Pinto’s driver’s side window. “Who’re those guys?” Roy yells.

“They’re okay!” She calls. “They’re just detectives or something.”

‘Or something?’ Holland mouths to Jackson. Jackson shrugs.

Roy eases out of the car and grabs a briefcase off the passenger seat. “Why’d you bring them along?”

“They think Robbie’s going to try to take me out.”

Roy goes even paler, making his freckles and adult acne pop against the pasty white of his face. “Fuck. Does he know about…?”

“Obviously.” She points to her black eye. “Have you got the money?”

“Oh yeah.” He nods furtively, holding up the Samsonite. “Right here, all one hundred thousand buckaroos of it.”

Holland coughs, choking on a swig from his flask. “A hundred grand?”

“Well, yeah.” Donna shoots them a look like they’re idiots. “It’s five kilos.”

“That’s, uh.” Jackson’s eyebrows have shot up on his face. “That’s a lot of cocaine.”

“Tell me about it. You guys have no idea how heavy it is lugging that stupid box around.”

Roy reaches into his jacket and Jackson and Holland both go tense, Holland fumbling to reach for his shoulder holster. He yanks the gun out, aiming it across the dirt lot. “Hey! Hands where we can see them!”

“Holy fuck!” Roy yelps, hands flying up in the air. A metal rectangle clatters to the ground.

“What the hell are you doing?” Donna shouts.

“He was going for a gun,” Jackson warns.

“Are you kidding me? I don’t carry a gun!” Roy shrieks. He points to the object he dropped. “It’s a tape recorder!”

“Why were you going for a tape recorder?” Holland yells.

“It’s hers!” He gestures to Donna. “I was just holding it for her, man, I swear—”

“Jesus, can you not point that thing at him?” Donna snaps. Holland lowers the pistol sheepishly. “I gave it to him for safekeeping, okay? I recorded some phone conversations and stuff between Robbie and the Canadians who he sells to, and I’m going to send them to the Feds.”

“Oh, my God,” Holland groans. “Do you _want_ to die?”

“Look, you assholes,” Donna growls, “I already told you, I’m gonna get back at him for seven shitty years of marriage. I know what I’m doing!”

Jackson holds up his hands. “I’m with March on this one, there are safer ways to get back at your husband. You’ve gotta just forget about this and leave town, he’s gonna come after you—”

“No,” she shakes her head, growing more agitated, “it’s too late now, I can’t go back.”

Holland and Jackson share a worried glance. “Mrs. Reed—”

“Don’t you ‘Mrs. Reed’ me!” Donna shouts frantically. “You don’t understand, Robert’s an asshole, he’ll do anything to have total control of the company. I’m only doing what I have to do to protect myself!”

Jackson turns to Roy. “And you?”

“I’m just trying to help Donna out, man,” he stammers. “If Robert found out we were trying to double cross him, he’d kill me.”

Suddenly, a red dot appears, glowing in the center of Roy’s forehead.

Donna points. “What is that?”

Holland grabs her and Jackson and drags them to the ground. “Get down!”

“Huh?” Roy stares at them, befuddled. “What are you guys—”

There’s a sound like a sharp “thwip”, and suddenly the dot turns into a neat, red hole right in the center of Roy’s forehead. A fine red mist of blood sprays out from the back of his skull, as the Samsonite drops into the dirt.

“Holy fuck!” Holland shrieks. Donna gags.

Roy, face frozen in a final, stupid Howdy Doody expression, topples backwards and lands on the ground with a thud.

Jackson drags the three of them up, pulling them to collapse behind the wall of the concession stand. He turns to Holland. “Sniper,” he gasps.

Holland looks around. “From where?”

Jackson’s gaze goes up to the top of the movie screen. He can just make out the shape of a shadowy figure on the metal frame, half-hidden behind the screen. “Up there,” he points. He jerks his head towards the Ferrari. “Get Donna to the car.”

“What about you?”

“I’m gonna get the tape recorder.”

“ _What_?”

“If what she says is true, we’ve gotta keep it out of Reed’s hands.”

Another bullet spits out into the dirt near Roy’s body, and Holland gulps audibly. He sets his jaw, then clutches his gun to his chest, the liquor and anxiety finally mixing in his stomach into liquid courage. Or stupidity. Whatever. “I’m a smaller target,” he admits. “You cover Donna and get her in the car. I’m gonna make a go for it.”

Jackson blinks. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Holland nods. “It’s, y’know. The right thing to do. Or whatever.” He glances at the top of the screen. “Also, I can probably grab the money while I’m out there.”

Jackson snorts, and Holland shoots him a small, weak smile. Their eyes meet. After a long second, Jackson nods.

“Be careful,” he says gruffly.

“Thanks, I’ll try.”

Jackson grabs Donna by the upper arm. “On my three, run to the Ferrari. Stick close.” Donna lets out a high-pitched whine. “One, two, three.”

He hauls her to her feet as Holland leaps up and darts out from the concession stand, running towards Roy’s body. “Serpentine,” he mutters to himself, winding and swerving to avoid the bullets spitting at his heels. “Serpentine!”

He trips, collapsing on to his knees with a muffled “Fuck!” Gritting his teeth, he crawls forward on his belly. “Shit shit shit,” he mutters as he reaches the body. He grabs the tape recorder from where it rests at Roy’s feet, stuffing it into his jacket, then reaches for the suitcase.

A bullet hits the ground next to his hand and he yanks it back with a yelp. Glancing up to the top of the screen, he sees the glint of the sniper’s rifle as it turns in the sulfur streetlight, the barrel aiming right for him.

Holland shuts his eyes, bracing himself. So this is how it ends, he thinks. He’s weirdly calm. Not one moment is flashing before his eyes. He’s kind of hungry, actually, but the main thought that hits him is how scared Holly is going to be when she wakes up the next morning and he isn’t home—

In the driver’s seat of the Ferrari, Jackson’s knuckles are white where he grips the wheel.

And up on the top of the screen, the rifle jams with a loud ‘click.’

Holland’s eyes snap open. He glances down at the conspicuous lack of bullet holes in his body. Jackson leans out the window. “Holland! _Run_!”

Holland lunges to his feet, bolting towards the car. Up on the screen, the sniper swears to himself, trying to unjam his gun. As he runs across the dirt lot Holland grins, the distance closing between him and the car—

There’s the loud spit of the rifle, and Holland stumbles as blood sprays onto the windshield of the Ferrari, a shocked expression spreading across his face.

A cold hand grips Jackson’s heart and squeezes.

Holland’s just standing there and Jackson can’t tell where the blood is coming from and a thousand thoughts go through his head at once and the loudest one is just _no no no_ —

—And then Holland holds up his arm, and he sees that the sleeve is stained red.

“It’s okay!” he shouts. “It just grazed me!”

Jackson thinks he’s having a heart attack. He wants to fall face-first onto the horn and never get up.

What he does do is yell, “Get in the fucking car, you idiot!”

Holland snaps back to reality as another bullet hits the hood, skidding off the metal. His face goes pale and he bolts the last few feet, slams into the passenger’s seat. Jackson stamps on the accelerator and they tear out of the lot with a squeal of tires, dust billowing up in their wake.

They speed down the street. Donna, eyes wide, leans over from the back seat and stares at Holland. “Are you okay?”

“I think so,” he examines his arm. “I can’t feel it. But I might be in shock.”

Jackson glances over at his partner and can’t help the hysterical laughter that bursts out of him. “You’re bleeding on a twenty-nine thousand dollar car,” he gasps, vaguely aware that he’s shaking. “Jesus Christ, Holland.”

Holland starts to laugh, too. The two of them dissolve into hysterical giggles, until Holland’s eyes start to shine with tears.

“Oh, man,” he gasps, “I think you guys need to take me to a hospital.”


	6. Chapter 6

The receptionist in the emergency room takes one look at Holland and gives the single most exaggerated eye roll that Jackson has ever seen in his life. “Again, Mr. March?” she asks. “What is it this time?”

“Hey, Rosa,” Holland waves at her with his good arm. The bad arm is currently wrapped in his jacket, blood seeping through the fabric. Jackson holds him upright, keeping him on his feet. “Would you believe I got shot?”

“If this wasn’t the fourth time I’ve seen you in three months, I wouldn’t.” She guides them into the back with a sigh, settling them in a cramped exam room. “Take off your shirt, and a doctor will be with you in a few minutes.” She taps the door on her way into the hall, making eye contact with Jackson. “If he passes out, just yell. Somebody will come handle it.”

Holland unbuttons his shirt one-handed and then winces, trying to shrug out of the fabric. Jackson helps him, easing the shirt away from his shoulders and gently peeling the sodden cloth away from the wound. He takes a sharp breath in when he sees it—the bullet cut a deep gash through Holland’s upper arm.

Holland glances down at it, wobbly more from blood loss than from the alcohol. “It feels better than it looks.”

“That’s because you’re drunk.” Jackson brushes a strand of hair out of Holland’s eyes. “And you’re in shock.”

“That’s fair.” The cold florescent lights flicker overhead. Holland squints against them, staring at Jackson’s chest. “I think I bled on you.”

Jackson looks at the red splotch on the front of his shirt and shrugs. “Nothing that won’t come out with cold water.”

“You're the expert.” Holland shifts to put weight on his injured arm and goes pale. “Oh, wait, there it is.”

“You need me to call the nurse back?”

“Nah, I’ll tough it out…” he unbundles his bloody jacket, fumbling through the pockets. “Shit. Did I drop my flask? Motherfucker.”

“It’s probably in the car.” Jackson rests a hand on Holland’s shoulder, but Holland keeps searching through his jacket. “Hey, calm down.”

Breathing fast, Holland shakes his head. “No, no,” he mutters. “I can’t find it.”

“Holland,” Jackson says, firmly. Holland ignores him, like he can’t hear a word he just said, starting to tremble. “Holland, look at me.” He tips his chin up with one hand. Holland’s eyes are flitting around, unable to focus, sweat beading on his forehead. “You’re freaking out again, okay? Put your head between your knees.”

“Oh, God,” Holland exhales, bending at the waist to flop forward like a ragdoll. Jackson holds him by the shoulders to stop him from falling off the exam table. “I can’t—do you smell gas?”

“What?” Jackson asks, puzzled.

“— _fuck_ —”

“I’m gonna get somebody to help.” Jackson bends down, forcing Holland to look him in the eyes. “There’s no gas, okay? It’s alright. There’s no danger.”

Holland gulps in a breath and gives him a shallow nod. Jackson stands and disappears into the hallway.

A few minutes later, a harrowed-looking ER doctor pokes his head around the door, eyeing Holland where he sits on the exam table with his head between his knees. Jackson follows him, arms crossed over his chest and biting the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t like showing anxiety around Holland in the first place, and showing anxiety in front of Holland when he’s having a freak out seems even worse, so he puts on his most stoic expression.

“Mr. March?” The doctor asks. Holland lifts his head weakly. “I understand you’re having a panic attack?”

“I don’t know what that is but if it feels like it sounds, then, yes.”

“Let’s take a look at you.” The doctor crosses the room and examines Holland’s eyes. “Your friend said you’re experiencing hyperventilation and confusion. Can you describe any other things you’re feeling right now?”

Holland sucks in a breath, tries to hold it, to focus. “I’m numb everywhere, I feel dizzy, I can’t see straight, and I kind of think I’m gonna puke.”

The doctor grabs a trashcan off the floor and shoves it at Holland. He clutches it to his chest, pale and sweating.

“Can you think of what might have brought this on?”

“I lost my flask.”

“Um. No.” The doctor eyes Holland’s bloody arm meaningfully.

“Oh. I got shot.”

“Right. Well, you seem to be calming down a little bit, so why don’t we treat that first.”

Holland nods blearily. Jackson takes a step closer to him as the doctor turns his attention to cleaning Holland’s arm.

“I’ve gotta stop doing this in front of you,” Holland hiccups, “it’s getting embarrassing.”

“Seriously? Jesus Christ, Holland, you got shot.”

“Yeah, but not badly.” He winces as the doctor swabs at his arm with the cotton pads. “Fuck, that stings.”

“This is going to need stitches, Mr. March.” He drops the bloody wipes into the trash.

“Ugh.” Holland grits his teeth. “Okay, get it over with.”

“You want me to see if I can find your flask in the car?”

Holland nods. “Should check on Donna, too.”

“Right. Shit.” Jackson glances at the door.

The doctor flicks the syringe of local anesthetic and takes a hold of Holland’s arm, sliding the needle into the muscle. Holland blanches at the injection. “Ohhhh yeah, that’s something all right.”

“I can stay while he does that, if you want.” Jackson gestures to where the doctor is threading his needle. Holland shakes his head.

“Nah. Not exactly the first time I’ve gotten stitches.”

* * *

 

The hospital parking lot is the soft dark blue and orange of all empty nighttime spaces in the city, flickering streetlights and neon signs blending together to round the edges of the evening. Donna is lying down in the backseat of the car, the box of coke carefully moved onto the floor and half-hidden under a discarded Cosmopolitan magazine. There’s a rap of knuckles on the window, and she sits up with a jolt.

Jackson stands outside the car. “Sorry,” he says apologetically, muffled through the glass.

She motions for him to get in, and he slides into the driver’s seat, turning around the look at her in the back. “How’s your partner?” She asks.

“He’ll be fine, they’re stitching him up right now.” Jackson throws her a small smile, but can’t quite bring himself to commit to it. “March can survive pretty much anything.”

“He took a bullet for me,” Donna says earnestly, kicking the box further under the seat. “I mean, I owe you guys, if you hadn’t tagged along I’d be dead.”

Jackson shrugs, choosing not to mention that the bullet, far from ‘taken,’ had barely passed through Holland at all. Thankfully. “It’s our job.”

“Except it’s not.” Donna sighs, fluffing her auburn hair. “My husband hired you, and now he’s trying to kill me. I need someone on my side, and you two seem like the only people willing to help me out, now that Roy’s dead.” She looks almost sad, shoulders sagging. “He may have looked like the ass-end of Ireland, but he was a good lay.” Jackson tries not to make a face. “What I’m getting at here is that I want to hire you. Officially. I need someone to protect me until I can get out of town, and if I can get you guys off of Robbie’s payroll and onto mine, that’s loyalty I can buy instead of just having to trust.”

Jackson frowns, catching a glint of silver on the floor. He bends to pick it up. “Mrs. Reed—”

“Call me Donna.”

“Donna,” Jackson corrects himself, sliding Holland’s flask into his pocket, “we’re more than happy to make sure you get out of town safe—no one wants anybody to get hurt here—but we’re detectives, not bodyguards.”

“Look,” Donna leans over the backseat. She throws her arms around Jackson’s neck, pulling him in close, and he freezes, startled and uncomfortable. Her breath is hot on his face and he catches the smell of her perfume, sickly sweet and floral. “That was my husband shooting at us up there. He’s not gonna stop until I’m out of his way.”

Jackson carefully pries her hands off his shoulders. “How do you know that was him? Couldn’t he have sent someone to do it for him?”

Donna shakes her head and her hands creep back up his arms, long acrylic nails plucking at the fabric of his shirt. “Robbie was a sniper in Korea. He doesn’t let anyone do a job he thinks he could do on his own.” She rolls her eyes. “He’s a real manly man that way. But look, you guys wanna get paid, help me unload this and the rest of the coke I know Robbie’s got stashed around the place, and then get out of town, that seems like a better deal to me then waiting around for him to whack me.” She flicks the top button of Jackson’s shirt.

“Wait, sorry,” Jackson holds up his hands to stop her, “did you say ‘the rest of the coke’? I thought you said that—” he gestures to the box, “—was the last of it.”

“The last of it that’ll be there today,” Donna smiles slyly. “He’s getting a premium shipment tomorrow morning. He’s got a bunch of Canadian big wigs flying up here on Thanksgiving day, they’re gonna do a big sale—all that sweet, grade A Colombian blow for a million dollars, cash.” She looks smug and leans in close, puckering her lacquered red lips as Jackson tries to lean far, far away. “But I know where he’s hiding it. And I’m gonna send the Feds right to it.”

Someone knocks on the car’s hood, and Jackson and Donna both jump. Donna yanks away, falling into the backseat. Outside the car, Holland bends down, staring at them through the windshield. His arm is wrapped in gauze, poking out from where his sleeve is rolled up. Jackson catches the expression on his face—mouth tight, turned down at the edges. Jackson’s heart drops into his stomach. “What’d I miss?” Holland asks, fake-casual, as he throws open the door and drops into the passenger’s seat.

Jackson hands him his flask. “That was fast.”

Holland swipes it out of his hands and takes a swig, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “I discharged myself.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Jackson says carefully.

Holland narrows his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“I wanna hire you to protect me.” Donna interrupts, clearing her throat.

A car backfires somewhere in the distance and Holland jumps, sloshing his drink on the front of his shirt. “How much?”

“March,” Jackson warns, “I already told Mrs. Reed—”

“Donna.” She flashes a toothy smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Donna,” Holland parrots, shooting Jackson a look. He takes another gulp of vodka.

“I already told Donna that’s not a service we offer.”

“Why not?” Holland glances between the two of them defiantly. “It’s nearly Christmas. Don’t you wanna be able to buy a new treasure chest for your fish, Healy? The ones with the little bubbles when you open them?”

The sarcasm is palpable. Jackson glares at him. “Holland…”

“How much?” Holland repeats, ignoring him.

“Five hundred.”

“Seriously? I wouldn’t find a lost cat for five hundred.”

Donna sets her jaw. “Fine. Seven. It’s only one day, alright?”

Holland spits in his palm and holds it out to her. She stares at it, wrinkling her nose, and he wipes it on his jacket. “Deal.” 

* * *

 

The lights are still on in the living room as they pull up outside of Holland’s place, the sound of car tires crunching on gravel announcing their return. Holland gets out and slams the door, rapping his knuckles on the bullet marks marring the Ferrari’s hood.

Jackson follows him. “Let me walk you to the door.”

“What am I, the prom queen?” Holland stumbles up to the front door. Jackson catches up as he fumbles with his keys, planting one arm on the wall beside Holland’s head and blocking him from getting in. Holland looks up, glaring at him. “You wanna get out of my way?”

“What the hell is your problem?” Jackson hisses.

“What’s _my_ problem?” Holland asks incredulously. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I got shot. In the fucking arm. On my night off. And you’re over here, what, playing Prince Valiant, trying to save poor Princess Mini Skirt?”

Jackson stares at him. “Are you serious? What, you’re jealous?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Healy.” Holland bites. The insult lands like a slap. “You got us dragged in with a damsel in distress. That make you happy? Congratulations, you get your chance to be a real knight in shining armor.”

“I was going to turn her down,” Jackson growls.

Holland laughs. The sound is hollow. “No you fucking weren’t.”

“Well, she’s paying us. That make you feel better?”

“You would’ve done it for free.”

Silence rings in the air between them. Holland is breathing hard, cheeks flushed with anger and booze. Jackson wants to shove him against the wall, smack him upside the head. He can feel that old anger rising in his chest, like pressure building behind a too-tight gasket, ugly and suffocating and familiar. When he tries to force it down, it seeps out in other ways.

“Don’t think you know me that well.” He says, molars grinding against each other in the back of his jaw. He can feel Holland’s eyes burning a hole in his back as he turns and heads back to the car.

Jackson drops behind the wheel and watches through the windshield as Holland slams the front door behind him. In the backseat, Donna glances between the him and the house. “What was that all about?”

“Nothing.” Jackson tears his gaze away and turns the keys in the ignition. “Let’s get you into a hotel for the night.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I probably should have mentioned this like, four or five chapters back, but I'm basing most of my character background and details on the movie but with little details from the novelization (which I haven't actually read yet, cough cough, whoops) like Jackson's avocado farming and the fact that the fire happened on Thanksgiving. Also I have no idea what Jackson or Holland's wives were called, but I saw someone else referring to the ex-Mrs. Healy as June, so that's what I've gone with here.

Behind the desk in the dingy office of the Sunshine Motel, the receptionist stares at Jackson and Donna over her rhinestone-studded glasses. Her beehive, ten years out of date, wobbles as she gives them the once over, eyeing the bloodstain on Jackson’s shirt. “And that’ll be a queen size bed you want?” she asks.

“No,” Jackson says firmly, cutting Donna off as she opens her mouth, “a single.”

The receptionist—her nametag reads “Irma”—raises one stenciled-on eyebrow.

“For the lady,” Jackson clarifies.

“Whatever you say,” Irma shrugs, and pushes the guest book to them across the desk. She stands to retrieve the room key from the backboard, and Jackson grabs the book and pencil before Donna can reach it.

“Hey!” She hisses as he scribbles down a name, “What are you doing?”

Jackson holds up the page so she can see it. “June Healy” is scrawled on the line in his tight, scratchy handwriting. “While you’re here,” he explains quietly, out of earshot of Irma, “you can’t risk using your real name. So for the night, you’re June.”

“Who’s that, your wife?”

Jackson’s expression doesn’t change. “Ex-wife.”

Irma returns and holds out the keys in her palm. A pink plastic tag is attached to them. “You’ll be in room 237,” she drones. “There’s an ice machine by the stairs and a vending machine next to that.”

Donna takes the keys. “Thanks,” Jackson says, flashing Irma a smile. She doesn’t return it, and he’s vividly aware that, after the night he’s had, he probably looks like a bum.

The parking lot is nearly empty, and Donna retrieves the black box from the floor of her car. Jackson walks her to the motel stairs. Room 237 lies dead center in the building, the balcony corridor a narrow cement walkway. Donna pauses in front of the vending machine and rummages in her purse, shifting the box to the crook of her arm. She produced a crumpled twenty and hands it to Jackson.

“What’s this for?” He asks, not taking it. She wiggles it at him.

“Cab fare. So you can get home.”

He shakes his head. “I live five minutes away. I can walk.”

“Take it.” She presses it against his chest and lets go, forcing him to grab it before it drops to the ground. “Least I can do, I guess, before I can write you the check.” She takes a half-step closer to him, angling her hips. “Unless there’s some other way I can make it up to you.”

“I’ll take the twenty,” Jackson says. Donna’s face falls, and he backpedals rapidly. “It’s not—look, I don’t mix business and pleasure. It’s a bad idea.”

Donna tilts her head, examining him. Her stare makes Jackson uncomfortable. “That’s not it, though,” she muses, “you’re just not interested.”

Jackson shifts where he stands. “It’s nothing personal,” he mutters.

“You know, it’s easy to get most guys to do whatever you want if you just swing your legs the right way and show a little tit,” Donna readjusts the strap of her purse, smiling faintly. Tired and dress streaked with dirt, yellowing bruise staining half of her face, she looks more genuine than she has in the whole time that Jackson’s been around her. “I learned that early. But you don’t bite. Why is that? The second Mrs. Healy waiting for you at home?”

“Nobody waiting for me but a couple of fish.”

“You a queer?”

Jackson carefully schools his face into neutrality. “Owning an aquarium make you a fag these days?”

Donna laughs. “Okay, I get it. I won’t pry.” She starts up the steps. “You and your partner, you’re a real breath of fresh air. You might be assholes, but at least you’re unique assholes.” She stumbles a little in her high-heeled boots and glances at him over her shoulder. “I’ll call you at seven tomorrow morning to check in. That sound okay?”

Jackson nods, following her up the steps and down the concrete walkway. She pauses outside of her room and turns to face him.

“I know the look of guys like you, Mr. Healy. You’re a born loser,” she says. “You’ll never learn. You’ll think that you have, you say things like, ‘Well, I’ll never make that mistake again,’ but you will. You always will.”

Jackson levels his gaze at her. “How’d you figure that, Mrs. Reed?”

She flashes him a sad grin. “Because I see it every day when I look in the mirror.”

Jackson waits until he hears the click of her door locking before he retreats back to the parking lot. He catches Irma watching him through the window of the reception room; she turns quickly back to the magazine on her desk when he matches her stare.

* * *

 

The Comedy Store is winding down for the night when Jackson gets back. A weeknight, the place is pretty much empty, a few open mic comics slumped over the bar. Someone has already started mopping the floor—probably cleaning up some poor sucker’s vomit—and Jackson sidesteps the wet patch carefully as he makes his way to the back of the club.

He lets himself into his apartment and flicks on the light. A bone-deep tiredness seems to seep into him the minute he crosses the threshold, and when he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror as he shuffles across the room, the face that looks back at him is smudged with dirt and dust, a cut crusted with drying blood under his left eye. He winces and picks a rock of gravel out of his cheek.

The fish tank bubbles quietly in the corner, and Jackson crosses to it, picking up his container of dried flakes and lifting the lid, shaking the food into the water. Holland the fish swims to the surface, bumping into the glass wall before making his way up to gulp down the flakes. Jackson watches him ruefully. “What the hell am I gonna do with you?” He mutters.

It’s been a year, and Jackson realizes that he still doesn’t really know where he stands with Holland. Sure, from a professional standpoint things are pretty clear and simple, but it’s the extracurriculars that make things complicated. He drops his chin to his hand with a sigh, watching the fish. He doesn’t know if Holland’s fucking other people—he suspects he is, not because of any kind of real evidence but just because he can’t imagine anyone being satisfied with him alone. It’s not like the beautiful people of the world are exactly clamoring for the attention of a fifty-two year-old ex-con, ex-avocado farmer, ex-hired goon, whatever. “Professional Tough Guy” might have paid the bills, and “Private Eye” does the same, but neither title is enough to gild the fact that Jackson is going grey, a whole hell of a lot thicker than he was twenty years ago, and has scars that make it look like he’s seen the softer side of San Quentin. Donna’s come-ons, he knows, were pure strategy, and no matter how good he feels when he’s with Holland, Jackson just can’t shake the feeling that he’s being used. Because let’s be real: there’s no reason a guy like Holland would go for Jackson. Except maybe convenience. Or beer goggles, or some combination of the two.

Jackson shakes his head, trying to clear the negative thoughts as he stands up. Crossing to the fridge, he spies the last of the beers that he’d bought for when Holland comes over. He’s tempted to crack one open—tempted may be an understatement—but closes the door instead and runs himself a glass of water from the sink.

Angry as it makes him, Holland’s right. With a little extra prodding, he _would_ have agreed to protect Donna for free. Jackson mulls that over. A year ago, that wouldn’t have been the case. A year ago he would have taken the job, yeah, no contest, but he would’ve never dreamed of doing it pro bono. Maybe he’s getting soft. Maybe he’s a sucker for big doe eyes and a sad story. Holland’s face pops into his head and he can’t quite push the image away.

It’s not that he doesn’t care about Holland. He’s his friend. He’s a touchy, mouthy, pain-in-the-ass motherfucker, but he gives a shit about the guy, whether they’re sleeping together or not. And goddammit, maybe that’s the problem. Jackson’s been getting used to having Holland and Holly around, to staying over at their house for dinner while he and Holland go over case files, ordering pizza and sitting in front of the TV with them while Holly, sitting Indian-style on the carpet, stares at a horror movie on channel five with wide eyes and a grin. Maybe he’s getting too close, mistaking friendship for something else.

Goddamn feelings, he thinks. The guys in the adventure magazines he used to read as a kid never had feelings. They just swam to the desert island, fought off the cannibals with a machete, saved the girl, and didn’t blink an eye doing it. Tough guys don’t have time for that feelings shit, but that aspect of the lifestyle Jackson had never quite gotten the hang of.

 _But_ , a small, insistent voice that sounds somewhat concerningly like Holland whispers in his head, _that was definitely jealousy_. Jackson recognized the look that had been on Holland’s face when he saw Donna trying to mack on him—angry, upset, betrayed. He knows that look all too well—

Or maybe he was just imagining it.

Jackson replaces the lid of the fish tank. Overthinking his personal problems can wait until the morning, and besides, he reminds himself, it’s not as if there aren’t more pressing issues at hand. Issues like drugs, and murder, and the fact that it’s Thanksgiving in less than forty-eight hours.

He tears the day’s page off his calendar to reveal the one underneath it:

November 22nd, 1978. _Truculent. Adjective. Defiantly aggressive._

* * *

 Holland wakes up to a phone being shoved in his face. He blinks at the plastic receiver blearily from where his head is pillowed on the arm of the couch, and then back at Holly, who’s holding it. The phone itself is dangling from her other hand, chord stretched out from the wall. She’s wearing her pajamas, and an exasperated expression.

“It’s for you.”

“Whoozit?” He mumbles. Holly rolls her eyes.

“Mr. Healy. Duh.”

“Don’t ‘duh’ me, it’s…” he glances at his watch and lets out a gurgling groan, “…seven thirty AM. Who the hell is awake at seven thirty AM—” He grabs the receiver from her.

“—can hear you, March.” Jackson says, voice crackling over the line. Holly drops the telephone on Holland’s lap and wanders into the kitchen, standing on her toes to grab a box of Fruit Brute out of the cabinet above the counter. “I need you over here.”

“It’s too early,” Holland grumbles, grinding the grit out of his eyes with one fist. Holly passes him a bowl of cereal and mouths ‘You’re welcome.’ “What’s so important that you’re waking me up at stupid o’clock?”

“Donna isn’t answering her phone.”

“Her what?” A stab of half-remembered jealousy lances through his chest at the same time that he feels the stitches in his arm catch and tweak. Wincing, Holland looks around for a spoon and, not finding one, tips the bowl up and slurps the milk from the rim.

The sound of Jackson rolling his eyes is almost audible through the line. “Her phone in the motel. She isn’t picking up.”

“Oh, so she didn’t end up spending the night at your place?” Holland knows he’s being petty but it’s too early to try to hold it back, and he’s got a real fucker of a headache brewing behind his eyes, so it gushes out unfiltered. Holly—who’s sitting at the counter and definitely not eavesdropping, no sir, not her—glances up from her breakfast. “I guess chivalry isn’t dead after all.”

“Dammit, Holland,” Jackson growls, “stop acting like a teenage girl. You’re the one that told her we’d take the job.”

Holland stretches out his arm and examines his sleeve, checking for the telltale red splotches that would announce a popped stitch. He seems to be in the all clear. He sighs. “So what’s the panic?”

“She said she’d call to check in at seven. She didn’t. I called her room, no answer.”

“Have you considered that maybe she’s still asleep? Like a normal person?” Holland stands and stretches.

“Look. She’s paying us the seven hundred. Can you just meet me there? It’s the Sunshine Motel.”

“Jesus. Fine. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.” He hangs up and drops the phone to the floor, letting it land with a muffled thump on the shag carpet. Passing Holly as he walks through the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee, he notices her wrinkle her nose. He looks down at himself. “New shirt?” He asks.

Holly nods. “New everything, dad. Honestly, what were you guys doing last night?”

“Uh… nothing much, sweetheart.” He scoops a spoonful of instant grounds into a mug and sets the kettle on the stovetop. “We had to go to a drive-in.”

She squints at his arm. “Are those stitches? Again?”

“Only, um. Six or seven.”

Holly crosses her arms over her chest. “Was someone shooting at you?”

“Holly,” The kettle starts to screech and Holland pours a stream of boiling water into his mug, then tilts a solid finger of whiskey into that- hair of the dog- “please don’t question Daddy’s life choices.”

“Don’t call yourself daddy. It’s weird.” She sighs and hops down from the counter, disappearing down the hall. Holland sips his spiked coffee and she returns, carrying a blue paisley shirt on a wire hanger. “Just be careful, okay?”

“Of course.” He ruffles her hair. “Can you take care of yourself here for the morning? We could go get lunch at the diner when I get back.”

“Yeah? Really?” Holly brightens up cautiously. Holland nods.

“Yeah, really. I’ll buy you a whole stack of pancakes, okay?”

“I’m going to hold you to that.” She presses the fresh shirt into his hand, making a face. “And seriously, you need to put on some clean clothes.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

Holland pulls crookedly into a parking space in the lot outside the Sunshine Motel. He plucks at the collar of his shirt as he gets out of the car—over starched at the cleaners, again—and flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette, sauntering across the asphalt.

Waiting for him by the vending machine, Jackson stares him down, arms crossed over his chest. They’re both wearing sunglasses, which makes avoiding eye contact blessedly easy. “Which room?” Holland asks, jogging the last few feet.

Jackson jerks his thumb up the stairs. “237.” He looks Holland up and down. “Your shirt’s buttoned wrong.”

“Yeah, well, you woke me up.” Holland makes the executive decision not to check where Jackson is pointing, even though he can tell—mostly by the way that damn collar is still itching one side of his neck—that he’s right. He's also acutely aware that his jacket is kinda bloodstained, but he could pass it off as dirt in a pinch. “Let’s just get this over with.”

They head up the stairs and down the walkway in sullen silence. Jackson can tell that Holland is still stewing, and to be honest he doesn’t feel too happy himself. Mostly he’s anxious. He's got a feeling in his gut like something’s not quite right, like a kind of shift has taken place and left a lingering impact in the air. When he glances at Holland’s face and sees unease written there, he knows that he feels it, too.

They stop outside the orange door and Jackson raps with his knuckles just under the peephole. “Donna? It’s Healy and March. You in there?”

No answer. Jackson glances up at Holland, who motions to the doorknob. Jackson reaches down to try it, and it swings open halfway on a squeaky hinge, stopped by the door chain, unlocked.

Jackson can see the bright pink tag of the keys on the floor through the gap in the door, and the needling sense of anxiety turns into a full chorus of warning sirens.

He steadies his shoulder and rams the door, the force of his charging body breaking the chain. He blinks, eyes adjusting to the dark room, then swears as his gaze falls to the center of the room. “Fuck.”

Holland stumbles in behind him, craning his neck. Almost instantly he catches sight of what Jackson is staring at.

Donna lies crumpled on the floor, her limbs spread out like a dropped marionette. Her eyes are closed. Blood trickles out of her nose, staining the beige carpet. Next to her on the floor lies the black box—empty—and her face and dress are covered in fine, white powder, her mouth crusted with blood and cocaine.

Holland gulps, going pale. “Oh, Christ.”

Jackson crosses the room in two strides and drops next to Donna, pressing his fingers to her neck. “I can’t feel anything.”

“Is she fucking dead? Oh my God.” Holland sits next to him on the carpet. Jackson takes ahold of her gently, lifting her head to rest in Holland’s lap. “What are you doing?” He hisses, flapping his hands.

“Just hold her for a second, for Christ’s sake. I’m gonna check if she’s breathing.” He ducks into the bathroom, looking around frantically. He finds what he’s looking for on the edge of the sink—a compact mirror. He grabs it—

“Holy fucking shit!” Holland shrieks from the next room. Jackson darts out. Donna is convulsing in Holland’s lap, limbs jerking violently as she shakes. “She’s alive, she’s having a—a fucking seizure or something—”

A gust of wind catches the curtains that shields the back window of the room, and out of the corner of his eyes Jackson catches sight of a dark shape. He spins on his heel and strides towards the window, tearing away the curtains.

Robert Reed crouches on the fire escape. His eyes meet Jackson’s, and for a second, they’re frozen, staring at each other.

Then he bolts down the rickety metal frame.

Jackson heaves the window open. “Call an ambulance!” He shouts over his shoulder.

“Way ahead of you—” Holland is already dialing the telephone. He glances up and sees Jackson with one leg already out the window. “Where the fuck are you _going_?”

Jackson heaves himself onto the fire escape. Robert, already ten steps ahead, is dangling from the ladder a floor below. He drops to the ground and starts sprinting.

Jackson makes his way down the fire escape as fast as he can, knees complaining as he lands on the asphalt alleyway behind the motel. He runs after Robert, watching him round the corner. He forces himself to speed up, bolting past the white-washed motel wall—

—Just in time to see a dark blue Chrysler Imperial screech away. Jackson can just make out Robert’s silhouette behind the wheel as it tears down the boulevard, vanishing into the distance. He bends at the waist, leaning on his knees and breathing heavily from the chase, and wishes he was ten years younger. _Fuck._

An ambulance siren wails nearby, and Jackson looks up at the motel, dread gathering in the back of his throat.

* * *

The paramedics load Donna’s unconscious body into the back of the ambulance on a stretcher, an oxygen mask covering her face. Holland and Jackson stand and watch, Holland gnawing at his nails anxiously.

Jackson reaches into Holland’s jacket pocket and pulls out his cigarettes, helping himself to one and offering the other to his partner. Holland shoves it in his mouth and lights them both.

“Thought you only smoked cigars,” he mutters. Jackson takes a long pull and then lets the smoke out slowly.

“It was either that or steal your flask.”

Holland pats himself down. His hands are shaking a little. “Don’t have it on me,” he mumbles around the cigarette. As the ambulance’s sirens start back up and it pulls out of the parking lot, his hand hits a flat, rectangular shape in his other pocket, and he freezes. “Wait, maybe I do.”

He pulls the shape out. Black and white plastic, it’s Roy’s portable tape recorder. Holland looks up. “Shit. Forgot I even had it.”

“Probably a good thing you didn’t give it to Donna.” Jackson stares after the ambulance morosely as it disappears from view. He shakes his head. “I should’ve seen him sooner. Out on the fucking fire escape, Jesus. I'm an idiot."

“Hey, no, I mean—potentially dead girl on the floor, kind of a distraction,” Holland reassures him. Hesitantly, he reaches out a hand and squeezes Jackson’s shoulder. Jackson stares at it blankly, and Holland retracts, tapping the ash off the end of his cigarette onto the cracks in the parking lot.

Irma wanders out of the reception room, eyeing Jackson. Holland catches sight of her and nudges his partner in the ribs, jerking his chin in her direction.

“What’s with the old broad?” He mutters.

Jackson follows his gesture, and his brows knit together. “Receptionist. She was there last night.” He clears his throat and squares his shoulders as Irma shuffles over to them. “Ma’am—”

She shakes her finger at Jackson threateningly. “You’re not getting the deposit back on the room! Do you know how much it costs to get those carpets cleaned?”

“We’re not—”

“I had a bad feeling, you two coming in looking like you’d come straight from Hell, I put up with enough of this hippie bullshit in the 60s—”

“ _Ma’am_ —” Jackson interjects helplessly.

“—I mean, dear lord, what do you expect is going to happen when you leave a woman alone, with drugs and strange men!”

“Sorry, what strange men?” Holland interrupts, cutting in as she takes a deep breath. Irma squints at him through her rhinestoned glasses.

“There was a man in a tan suit, he came in around six AM looking for his _wife_ ,” She glares at Jackson, “because he was afraid she’d come here with her _lover_.” The word is spit like chewing tobacco onto the parking lot.

Jackson feels his heart sink. He shares a glance with Holland. “What was his name?”

Irma barks out a laugh. “Oh, I think you know that already.” She mutters something about immorality under her breath, and Holland drops his cigarette to the ground, grinding it under his heel as he pulls out his wallet. He flashes his PI license at Irma, and the laughing comes to an abrupt halt. Jackson hands him the other, half-finished cigarette, and Holland takes a drag.

“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to give us that name.”

She looks between them, then back up to the balcony. The door to room 237 is open wide, broken chain dangling down in the breeze from the open back window. Finally she purses her lips in a tight frown, looking eerily like a snapping turtle in fuchsia lipstick, and stares the two detectives down.

“He said his name was Jackson Healy.”


	9. Chapter 9

If Holland had a choice, he certainly wouldn’t be back in the hospital for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. His only consolation is that at last this time he’s a visitor and not a patient.

He leans against the hallway phone booth, watching Jackson where he sits in the plastic waiting room chair, scowling at anyone who gets too close. The tinny dial tone drones in his ear and he taps the wall with a second quarter in case the first call, for some reason, doesn’t go through.

Luckily, Holland picks up on the second ring. “March residence.”

“Sweetheart! It’s Dad.”

There’s a long second of silence before Holly says, in a flat voice, “We’re not going to the diner, are we.”

“Hey,” Holland says firmly, “I made a promise, okay, hold me to that. It just… might be a little later than we initially planned.”

Holly sighs. “How late?”

Glancing at the crowded hospital waiting room, Holland grimaces. “Late lunch? Like three?”

“Where are you?” She asks. “I can hear people yelling in the background.”

Holland covers the receiver with his palm a second too late; a gurney rushes past him in the hall with three doctors flanking it. “Give me twenty-five CCs of morphine, stat!”

“Are you in the hospital again?” Holly blurts out, and Holland flinches at the rising panic in her voice.

“Everyone’s okay, sweetheart—well, not everyone,” he amends, “but Jackson and I are fine.”

“You’re sure?”

Holland pinches the bridge of his nose. “A client got hurt, and we’re just waiting to see if we can talk to her.”

“The lady from yesterday? Is she okay?”

A nurse taps Jackson on the shoulder, beckoning for him to follow her. Holland watches as he gets to his feet. “I… I don’t know.” He leans out of the booth and waves to Jackson, who catches sight of him and nods. “I’ve gotta go, Holly, they’re calling us in.”

She sighs down the line. “Okay. Be careful.”

“Don’t forget about the pancakes!”

Holly laughs, and Holland can feel himself relax immediately. The kid’s like a shot of emotional morphine. “Bye, Dad.”

“Bye, sweetheart.”

He waits to hear the click that means that she’s hung up, and then replaces the phone in the cradle. He jogs over to Jackson, and they head down the hallway together after the nurse, who pads along ahead of them in her soft-soled shoes. “What’s up?” he hisses.

“She’s gonna be okay,” Jackson says, and Holland lets out a breath he didn’t realize that he was holding. “Doctor says she’s awake.”

Holland glances down the long corridor, fingers itching to light a cigarette. He smooths his palms down his jacket anxiously. “We should talk to her. See if she’s got any information.”

Jackson nods. “Yeah, that was the plan.” His eyes are straight ahead, fixed on the nurse, voice flat. Holland wants to reach out and do—something, fucked if he knows. Give him a hug? The urge is totally ridiculous and stupid, but equally strong. When did he get so freaking sappy?

And even cheesiness aside, it’s clear that Jackson isn’t interested. Hunched shoulders, stiff neck, the fact that he’s barely looked Holland in the eye all morning—the body language comes through loud and clear. Jackson is pissed. God knows that Holland, habitual fuckup, has been on the receiving end of the cold shoulder more than a few times, but it never gets any less queasy-making, especially since he’s keenly aware that it’s his own fault. It’s pretty much always his own fault, though the degree to which he’s willing to take credit for that varies. But he gets it, this time—lately it’s like every little thing is setting him off. He’s not exactly thick-skinned, but Jesus, he’s never been so touchy in his life.

But seeing that woman with her arms around Jackson’s neck—

Holland shakes his head a little, trying to clear it. “That woman” is their _client_ —again, also his fault, at least kind of—and she’s not exactly in great shape. And he’s fuckin’ jealous of _her_? Guilt crawls up his spine with jagged fingernails. There’s only room for one person acting like a fourteen year-old girl in the March house, and it’s the one who doesn’t have a mustache.

The nurse comes to a halt outside one of the rooms, turning to face them. She seems to have latched onto Jackson as the responsible adult between the two of them and gives him a nod—fair, Holland concedes, he _is_ a lot less shaky than he is. Or maybe they’ve developed a friendship based on their mutual love of canvas shoes. “You can go in now.”

“Thanks.” Jackson manages a smile for her as she holds open the door, and they shuffle in as quietly as they can.

The hospital room is white and sterile and smells like cleaning spray. An antiseptic sting hangs in the air, making Holland’s eyes water. Donna lies in bed, propped up on pillows and staring at the ceiling. She lifts her head weakly and blinks at them, eyes bleary. Free of makeup, her face is splotchy, like a little kid after a crying jag. Holland is, for a second, reminded absurdly of an episode when Holly was seven—sick with the flu, delirious, she’d spent a full day crying at hallucinations of elephants threatening to trample her.

Donna lets out a low groan and flops back onto the pillow. The nurse shoots Jackson a sympathetic look. “She’s on a lot of sedatives,” she explains in a low voice as she backs out into the hallway, “so she’s probably not going to be awake for very long.”

Shit. The door clicks as the nurse leaves and Holland pulls up a chair and sits next to the bed. Jackson leans over their client. “Donna?” he asks softly. “How’re you feeling?”

“’m tired.” She mumbles.

“I know. I’m sorry.” His voice is gentle and low. Holland watches him as he tucks in the corner of the bed sheet almost absently, big hands incongruously careful. “Can you tell us anything about what happened?”

She shuts her eyes tightly. A tear leaks out of the corner, dripping down the side of her face. “Robbie found me.” Her eyes pop open as she lets out a hiccup. “He said—he said if I let him in we could talk, that he wouldn’t try to hurt me.” She turns her head, burying her face in her hair. “But then he held me down and shoved my face in the coke, I couldn’t help it, it got in my mouth and my nose—he was trying to kill me—”

She devolves into hysterical sobs. Jackson moves back a little—no matter how soft he can go, how comforting, there’s still nothing as jarring as someone crying unselfconsciously, painfully. Holland sees his chance, edges in.

“Hey—you’re okay.” He makes his voice as calm as he can get it, remembering late nights comforting Holly’s bad dreams, and rests a hand on the bed railing, glancing up at Jackson. “We’re gonna make sure you’re safe here, alright?”

Finally, Jackson meets his eyes. Holding the look, Holland can see the moment when the morning’s anger eases up and drops away. Jackson nods, the movement small but distinct, and turns to Donna. “We’ll talk to the nurse, get a guard put on your door. Alright?”

Donna nods tearfully.

“Do you know how he found you?”

She goes quiet. Not just dazed, exhausted, IV-full-of-lithium quiet—it’s deliberate silence. She averts her eyes.

Holland leans in. “Donna. Is there something you’re not telling us?”

Slowly, she looks back to them. “I went out,” she says, in a small voice. “I went to get the coke, the second stash, the big one, so I could hide it.”

“And?”

She hiccups again, eyes shining with tears like a kid who got their hand stuck in the cookie jar. “It was at our house.”

Holland falls back in the chair with a groan. “Oh, come on. Seriously?”

“I knew Robbie wouldn’t be there!” Donna protests. “It was like two AM, I was careful! He had a late meeting at the office, and I had to get the stuff.” She pouts. “But I think someone followed me back to the motel.”

Jackson sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That… wasn’t a good idea.” Holland lets out a snort, and Jackson glares at him.

“But I didn’t tell him where I hid the drugs,” Donna murmurs. Holland glances at the IV in her hand and then at the drip hanging from the pole near the bed. Sedated, she’s starting to drift off again. “I didn’t tell him… jack shit…”

Her head lolls on the pillows, and Jackson shakes her gently by the shoulder. “Donna—Donna, stay with me.”

“’m here,” she slurs.

“Where is it? Where’s the cocaine?”

She blinks once, long, slow. “On the hill,” she mutters, “close to home.”

“Donna?”

“Mrs. Reed?” Holland tries, but it’s no use—she’s out like a light.

* * *

“’On the hill, close to home’? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“How should I know?” Jackson leans against the taupe wall of the hallway, watching Holland pace back and forth in front of him.

Holland runs a hand through his hair. “Did she say anything to you about it last night?”

Jackson shakes his head. “Not a damn thing.”

“Shit.” Holland takes a pause from wearing a hole in the floor to fumble a cigarette from the pack and holds it between his lips. “So what, we’ve gotta guess? ‘If I was a metric fuck ton of cocaine, where would I be?’” he mumbles around the filter. He flicks his lighter once, twice—the flame fails to ignite, and he stuffs the Zippo back into his pocket with a swear, sticking the cigarette behind his ear.

Jackson, quiet, stares at his tennis shoes, listening to the squeak of Holland’s boots. “I think we’ve gotta get the cops in to deal with this,” he says, eyes still on the floor.

Holland stops in his tracks. Jackson looks up and sees the surprised expression on his face. “Seriously?” Holland asks.

Jackson nods. “Shit’s hit the fan.” He lets out a sigh and squints out the window, looking out over the hospital parking lot. “I should’ve never gotten us involved. It’s not our kind of work. I should have just let it go.”

“Hey, no,” Holland takes a step towards him, glancing around the empty hallway. No one is watching them, everyone busy with their own dramas and injuries. “You had your bad feeling—I mean, she probably would have died if you hadn’t followed up on it. Like, three times at least.”

Jackson raises an eyebrow. “Are we not ragging on me for being a knight in shining armor anymore?”

“Not right now,” Holland shrugs. “Maybe later. I don’t know.”

“Yeah, I don’t know either,” Jackson regards him carefully, “that’s the problem.”

Holland scrubs a hand over his face, looking from side to side, then grabs Jackson by the upper arm and steers him towards a door at the end of the hall.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere with some privacy…” Holland hustles him past the door and into the stairwell. The next thing Jackson knows, he’s being shoved up against the wall and Holland’s kissing him, hard, half-teeth and all urgency.

“Woah,” Jackson pushes him away with one hand on his chest, craning his neck up and down the stairs, wary. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Holland opens his mouth, then shuts it again. “I don’t know.”

“You can’t do shit like that here, somebody could see—”

“Yeah, I know, I know…” he rubs his chin, avoiding eye contact. “I’m just trying to—”

“ _What_?”

“I don’t _know_ , fuckin’ apologize or something!”

“Jesus.” Jackson holds him at arms length. “That’s how you apologize to people? You try to stick your tongue in their mouths?”

Holland lets out a cracked laugh. “Last night, I was freaking out, I just… I saw her all over you,” he gestures back to the hallway, to Donna’s room, “and I got angry.”

“Holland.” Jackson says firmly, “I didn’t sleep with her.”

“I know.”

“Nothing happened. She came onto me, that was it—”

“ _Yeah_ , I know.” He presses the hell of his palm to his eye. “I’m so fucking jumpy right now.”

Jackson wraps a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him in. Holland presses his face into the crook of his neck, stubble scraping against his cheek. “You’ve gotta hold it together.”

“I’m trying.”

“Not for me.” He pulls back, and Jackson shrugs. “Not _just_ for me,” he concedes, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled rectangle of glossy paper. He hands it to Holland. “Holly needs her dad right now. Things are hard enough for you guys without chasing stolen drugs all over town.”

Holland stares at the black and white photo of the half-rebuilt house. He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “Holly took this, huh.”

Jackson nods. “You should get back to her. I mean, it's Thanksgiving tomorrow, we’ll call your guy at the police department, get the cops on this, and then we can just move on—”

“Wait.” Holland’s mouth has gone dry. He stares, transfixed, at the photograph.

Jackson squints to look at the image, trying to see whatever’s grabbed Holland’s attention. “What?”

Eyes bright with realization, Holland stabs a finger in the center of the photo. “Jack,” he says slowly, excitement building in his voice, “I know where Donna’s hiding the blow.”


	10. Chapter 10

The bulldozer emblazoned with “Wallcott and Reed Construction” still sits on the lawn of the rebuilt March house. Holland looks between it, big and yellow, and the small black-and-white doppleganger in Holly’s photo, clutched so hard in his hand that the edge is crumpling despite the thick paper.

“You’re sure about this?” Jackson asks, squinting against the mid-day sun that’s peaking over the long, low roofline of the L-shaped house. The glass hasn’t yet been installed in the windows, and there’s a big gaping rectangle where the door will go, giving a view straight into the living room.

Holland swallows and nods quickly, before he can change his mind. “Yeah. I mean,” he gestures around them, “we’re on a hill. And it’s…”

He trails off. “Close to home,” Jackson finishes for him, and Holland clears his throat, head bobbing.

“Reed owns the construction company. The company’s building my house. Where’s a better place to hide your stolen drugs than in an empty construction site?”

They make their way up the front walk. Jackson starts across the threshold, Holland following behind him. Standing in the bare foyer, still all concrete and exposed wires with the floors yet to be installed, the emptiness of the house seems amplified. The click of Holland’s heels on the cement echo through the space eerily as he walks through the open plan building and stops in front of an arching doorway. All the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He fumbles a cigarette and sucks in a deep lungful of smoke. “This was—this is the dining room,” he says, stumbling over the words. He lays the flat of his palm on the wall, feeling the drywall dust on his skin.

“So where d’you think it could be?” Jackson asks, trying to distract him. Holland looks up, looks around.

“Uh. Well,” he runs a hand through his hair, examining the space. “That’s going to be a bathroom,” he points with his cigarette, “and that’s the living room. This is Holly’s room…” he starts to drift as he reaches the last doorway, “and at the end of the hall, that’s… that’s my bedroom.”

“Okay.” Jackson claps a large hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze. “Let’s check it out.”

“Yeah.” Holland nods, swallowing hard again, and leads the way.

The bedroom is empty. Holland isn’t sure what he was expecting when he crossed the doorway—that it’d be fully furnished? That his wife would be sitting up in their old queen-sized bed, reading an Agatha Christie paperback? The Ghost of Christmas Past? But it’s as barren as the rest of the house, grey and half-built—just a box, really, without paint and floors and furniture. _It’s just a house_ , Holland tells himself, and, breathing in for four, out for eight, he steps inside.

There’s an aluminum ladder standing in the middle of the room, unanchored wiring dangling from a fixture in the ceiling above it, and a huge blue tarp on the floor. The tarp is tented in the middle, covering something, and Holland lifts the corner and peeks underneath.

He turns to look at Jackson over his shoulder. “Hey, you should see this.”

“What is it?” Jackson crouches next to him, squinting under the blue plastic.

“Well, it’s bigger than a breadbox.”

A black duffel bag sits on the floor under the tarp. They share a look, and Holland yanks the covering up and away, letting it drift clumsily into the corner of the room.

Jackson grabs the bag’s handle and pulls it towards them, the fabric skidding against the floor. He winces. “Jesus, it’s like a ton of bricks.”

“It’s a ton of something, alright.” Holland rubs his palms together and reaches for the zipper, pulling it down slowly. As the bag falls open, he falls back on his ass. Jackson’s eyes go wide. “Holy _shit_.”

Holland clambers back up and pulls a massive, plastic-wrapped brick of cocaine from inside the folds of the bag.

“Yeah,” he says, “I’ll second that.”

* * *

It’s nearly five o’clock when they pull up to the rental house. Jackson hauls the duffel bag out of the trunk, while Holland juggles the three plastic bags from the stop he insisted they make on the way back.

It’s dark in the foyer, and Holland flips on the light switch with one elbow. Holly sits at the kitchen counter, facing them, a stony expression on her face, and Holland winces automatically.

“Hey, sweetheart,” He says, forcefully cheerful. “How was your day?”

“Solitary.” She glares.

Jackson blinks between the two of them, the duffel bag straining his shoulders. “Um. I’m going to put this down.”

They both ignore him, and he lowers it to the shag carpet carefully as Holland approaches his daughter and sets the doggie bags down on the counter in front of her like a peace offering. “Okay,” he starts, “hear me out—”

“You _promised_.” Holly snaps. “Late lunch? Three o’clock my ass.”

“Holl—”

“I bet you still haven’t even switched the batteries in your watch. Do you even care?”

“Come on,” he reaches out across the table, but she yanks away. “I’m sorry!”

“I spent all day here waiting for you! You do this all the time!” She hops down from the counter. “I’m sick of being here alone!”

“Holly, we talked about this, for the millionth time, it’s not safe for you to be around work stuff—”

“Oh, right, so I’m grown-up enough to drive you around when you’re wasted but not enough to sit in the car while you gouge some guy for pictures of his wife with the pool boy?” She bites out. “Were you even _on_ a case?”

“Hey!” Holland warns her, but Holly barrels right over him.

“It’s not fair! You don’t even trust me to go to a party—”

Holland groans. “Oh, Jesus, we’re still on this?”

“You treat me like I’m some kind of dumb kid!”

“You _are_ a kid!”

“Yeah, well at least I’m not some asshole drunk who just abandons his daughter to go get smashed in the middle of the day!”

“Holly!” Jackson barks. Holly and Holland both jump, staring at him, agape. “Don’t speak to your father like that!”

There’s a moment of perfect, crystalline silence. It hangs in the air like a chandelier about to drop. Then, Holly’s lower lip wobbles.

Jackson’s stomach does what feels like a full 360 degree flip. “Holly—”

“I hate you!” Holly hurls at them, her voice quivering. She round on her father, eyes shining with unshed tears. “I hate both of you!” She throws herself down the hallway and into her room, slamming the door behind her with a resounding crash.

“Shit.” Jackson collapses on the bar stool next to Holland. Holland pulls the Styrofoam box out of one of the plastic doggie bags morosely. The smell of maple syrup fills the kitchen, though Holland couldn’t tell even if he wanted to. He offers the box to Jackson.

“Want a pancake?”

* * *

Holly falls onto her bed, burying her face in the floral comforter. Her eyes burn and she bites her lip so hard she can almost taste blood, trying to stop herself from bursting into tears. Flipping onto her back, she grabs her green throw pillow, hugging it tight to her chest. Stuffed animals all burnt up in the fire, the pillow’s a poor substitute for the velveteen rabbit she’d had since she was a baby. She rubs her cheek against the thin velour and tries to remember the feeling of the soft fur on her skin.

She’s not gonna cry. She’s _not_. A tear leaks out the corner of her eye and she scrubs it away with a balled-up fist. The wetness on her face makes her angry. It’s just not _fair_.

A red-hot wave of frustration rolls over her like a tidal wave, and she launches the pillow across the room. It hits a Ramones poster, thwacking against the thumbtack holding it up and sending it flopping to the floor.

She hops off the mattress and goes to her knees, reaching under the bed. Biting her lip, she fishes her hand around blindly, pushing aside a shoebox full of gummy vials of nail polish until her fingers close tight around something long and cool.

Holly pulls the bottle of Jack Daniels out from where she’d hidden it earlier in the afternoon, holding it by the neck. She eyes the bottle warily, setting it down on the carpet. Being careful to keep quiet, Holly pulls open the drawer of her vanity and grabs a tube of lipgloss.

No one’s going to tell her what she can and can’t do—not Dad, definitely not Mr. Healy. She’s nearly fourteen years old, dammit. She squeezes the pink gloss on her fingertip and aggressively dabs it on her lips, then wipes the extra on the stupid velour pillow as she picks it up off the floor. Grabbing her crocheted quilt and balling it up, she stuffs the it and the pillow under the comforter, plumping the fabric up and pulling the sheets over where her head would be.

She stands back by the door and squints at the bed, examining her handiwork. The lump under the covers is vaguely the same size as her, and in the dark… close enough.

She is going to this goddamn party.

Holly shrugs on her denim jacket and picks up the bottle of Jack, sticking it under her arm. An afterthought, she grabs the lipgloss and shoves it in her pocket.

The window slides open with a rush of cool air, the November wind sweeping through the Canyon. Holly heaves herself up onto the windowsill, legs dangling out into the night, and jumps, landing on her feet with a gentle bounce on the grass.

She glances towards the front of the house, but the blinds are closed despite the yellow light inside. She takes a step towards the road—

—And a thick arm grabs her from behind, snaking around her waist.

Before she can scream, a hand smacks over her mouth. Holly twists, trying to bite, to wiggle free, but the dim light from the kitchen window catches a flash of silver in the hand around her waist. A knife, glinting dully as it presses into her t-shirt.

“Don’t struggle,” a deep voice says low against her ear, “and I won’t cut you.”

* * *

In the kitchen, Jackson takes a bite of pancake as Holland swallows the dregs of a lukewarm beer. “You know,” he says around the mouthful, “these are pretty great.”

“Yeah,” Holland drops the empty bottle into the sink glumly, “it’s Holly’s favorite diner.” He crosses the room and flops onto the couch, passing a hand in front of his eyes. “You’d think I could go one day without fucking something up, right?”

Jackson watches him from the counter. “March. She’s a teenager. You’re gonna fight.”

Holland shakes his head. “No, she’s right. I promised.”

“I mean. You did bring the pancakes.” Jackson says, grasping at straws.

Holland laughs, but it hitches and cracks in the middle. He rubs both hands down his face, letting out a long breath. “I wish…” he cuts himself off. Jackson lays his fork down carefully.

“What?”

Holland glances at him, then shakes his head. “No, just. You know. I wish my wife was here.”

Jackson goes still. He half expects him to grab the nearest bottle of whatever and retreat to his room for the rest of the night—his usual modus operandi when the subject comes up—but he doesn’t make any movements towards the liquor cabinet. He just looks up at Jackson.

“You know we got married when we were twenty-two?” Holland’s eyes sting and he forces himself to keep them open. “That’s so young, man. We were just kids. What were you doing when you were twenty-two?”

Jackson clears his throat. “Uh,” he says sheepishly, “I was in jail.”

“Well, case in fucking point.” The sofa dips as Jackson sits down next to him. Holland fingers the golden ring on the chain that hangs from his throat absently, rubbing the soft, weathered metal with the pad of his thumb. “We did the whole college sweetheart shtick, and then next thing you know, she’s pregnant, and then Holly came, and it all just…” He can’t help it; he blinks, and the tears start to fall. Fuck.

“…you know we thought she was gonna be a boy? And then boom, she just popped right out and she was a girl, and I was kind of disappointed, you know, I wanted a little Holland Jr. or whatever, but then I looked at her and she was so tiny and pink in the… the baby prison thing—”

“The bassinet?”

“What fucking ever, man, she was adorable, and she was _my kid_ , she was my little girl.” He shakes his head, and oh jeez, the tears are just coming now and they’re not gonna stop. “And I mean, things weren’t always great with me and her mom, we weren’t really ready to be parents.” He hiccups, and wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Ah, God… we fucked around on each other, you know, when things got rough sometimes and we couldn’t stand to be in the same fucking room, but I always came back, because—we weren’t perfect but I loved her, you know?” His chest is heaving now, and he takes in a great shuddering breath. One of Jackson’s hands has found its way to the small of his back, and Holland lets himself fall forward, face in his hands.

“Oh fuck, Jack, I miss her so much. She gave me the only thing in my life that’s ever really mattered—I’d be dead without Holly, man. That’s not even hyperbole, I’d really be fuckin’ dead. I didn’t deserve my wife, I don’t deserve you and Holly. But some days you guys are the only thing that keeps me going, otherwise I’d just lie down in traffic and let a semi run me over.”

Jackson wraps his arm around Holland’s shoulders and pulls him close. “Jesus Christ,” he says, stricken. “God, man, I’m sorry.”

Holland lets himself relax into Jackson’s grip. “Don’t,” he says, “don’t you ever be sorry, okay, you and Holly are the only good things in my life. I wasn’t a good husband but I try to be a good dad… I’m trying to be a better person.” He pulls back. Jackson brushes a thumb over his cheek, wiping away some of the wetness, and Holland follows it with his own sleeve, face hardening. “I can’t fuck this up, Jack,” he says. “You guys are all I’ve got left.”

Jackson nods towards Holly’s room down the hall. “You ever tell her that?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, no way.”

“Well. I think she already knows, at least kinda.” Jackson nudges him. “Go talk to her, Holland.”

“Yeah. Shit, yeah, okay.” He stands and takes a deep breath, trying to push his hair into something presentable. “My eyes red?”

Jackson wiggles his hand, palm down. “A little bit.”

“Good enough.”

Holland creeps down the hallway and leans against the wall outside of Holly’s door. He raps his knuckles against the frame. “Sweetheart?”

No answer. He blows a breath out through his nose and tries again. “Holly, can I come in?”

Silence. Holland reaches down and, tentatively, tries the knob. He pushes the door open a crack and peeks in. He blinks as his eyes adjust to the dark. He can just make out the shape of Holly curled up under the covers, turned towards the wall.

Holland pads into the room. He drops a hand to the bed, trying to poke Holly in the shoulder—and his whole arm follows with it. Letting out a yelp as he pitches forward, Holland lands on top of the bed, scrambling up immediately. He tears the comforter away to find the mound of pillows and blankets.

He looks up to the open window, feeling the breeze blowing in from outside, and his blood runs cold.

“Oh fuck.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG

Holland bursts back into the living room, stumbling around the corner. “Holly’s gone,” he gasps, breathless.

Jackson is on his feet before he really registers that his brain has sent the message to move. “What do you mean, gone?” he says, legs already carrying him down the hall. He glances in through the doorway of Holly’s room, takes in the pile of pillows, the open window. “Shit.”

“Oh my God,” Holland looks about to seconds away from hyperventilating, “what—where—what the fuck—“

“She snuck out.” The tube of mascara on the counter, the decoy in the bed—a few years of following around wayward, rebellious teenage girls to pop their twenty-something boyfriends in the teeth has given Jackson at least some insight into vanished fourteen year olds. Still, he can’t help the hints of a cold sweat that start to form on the back of his neck. Something isn’t right, here—he can feel it in his gut—but he doesn’t want to give Holland more of a reason to panic, so he tries to keep his voice calm and level. He turns to look at Holland, who’s leaning with his palms on his knees in the threshold.

His face has taken on a pale greenish tint. “She’s grounded,” he blurts out, voice more shrill than he’d ever admit, “she’s grounded forever. Until she’s thirty. She’s grounded until she’s fifty—“

“The party is at Jessica’s house, right?” Jackson tries to reassure Holland. “We’ll drive over, pick her up—“

The phone rings, and they both jump. Holland is darting to the kitchen before Jackson can even blink. He rips the receiver off the base. “ _What_?”

For an excruciatingly long second, the line is silent. Then, a deep voice chuckles, and Holland’s skin crawls. “Mr. March. What a rude way to answer the phone.”

“Who the fuck is this?” Holland spits.

“Your former client,” the voice says, bitterly, and Holland recognizes Robert Reed’s low California drawl. “I came over to have a little chat with you and Mr. Healy, but to my surprise I found the third partner in your rinky-dink operation climbing out the window. Lucky me.”

The room seems to swim and swirl around Holland. He sinks to the kitchen floor, clutching the phone to his ear. There’s a shuffling over the line, and Reed’s voice is fainter when he says, “Say hello to daddy, baby doll.”

“Don’t _call_ me that, you creep—” Holly is cut off with a pained yelp, and Holland sees red. He barely hears her when she bites out, through obviously gritted teeth, “Hi, Dad.”

“Sweetheart, did he hurt you?” He forces himself to say. Talking feels like spitting nails. He’s dimly aware that he’s started to shake.

“I’m okay.”

“Holly—”

“This _asshole_ doesn’t scare me,” Holly says, and her voice quivers through the insult. Brave girl. Bad self-preservation instinct. _She gets that from me_ , Holland thinks to himself, half-hysterical. “I’m not afraid of some greaseball—”

There’s another yelp and a fumble as Reed rips the phone away from Holly. “That’s enough of that.”

“You sick fuck,” Holland hisses, “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“That’s a lovely sentiment, Mr. March. I’d like to see you try.”

“I swear to God, if you’ve laid one finger on my kid—”

“If you’re quite done, “ Reed says coldly, “I’m not particularly worried by the threats of a drunk.”

Someone pries the phone out of Holland’s hands. He looks up to see Jackson towering over him, his face drawn and hard. “Reed?” He growls.

“Mr. Healy, what a pleasant surprise.”

“I’m gonna rip off your head and shit down your neck.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Reed says, un-phased. “How about an exchange? My drugs for your brat.”

Jackson finds himself nodding, his mouth moving, with not a single second of thought in his head. There’s nothing to think about. This isn’t a discussion. “Where?”

“Walcott and Reed Real Estate. We’re in the phone book. Seventh floor.” Jackson files the information away almost unconsciously. “There’s a big billboard outside; I’d say you can’t miss it, but I wouldn’t put it past a two-bit sideshow act like Mr. March and yourself.”

On the floor, Holland finds he can’t tear his eyes away from a pair of Holly’s sneakers, toed off on the carpet a few feet away. He catalogues every speck of dirt on them as his heart crawls up, throbbing, into his throat. He can still hear Reed’s voice over the line.

“Be there in an hour, with the coke, or baby doll here gets to find out how a cement mixer works. From the inside.” Reed chuckles like he’s just made an incredibly clever joke. Jackson wants to wrap his fingers around Reed’s throat and squeeze until the windpipe crumples under his hands like a plastic straw. The line clicks as Reed hangs up, and Jackson drops the phone, letting it clatter to the ground so that he won’t smash it into a million pieces against the counter.

“Oh Christ,” Holland moans, face pressed against his knees. He’s going to be sick, he’s going to vomit the queasy fear rising like bile in the back of his mouth right out onto the carpet. Jackson grabs him by the shoulders and drags him to his feet, pushing him back against the counter. He’s chalky pale, sweat beading on his forehead and eyes unfocused like he’s got the flu. “I can’t—Jack, I can’t—”

Jackson slaps him across the face.

The sound of it, the crack of skin on skin, rings in the silence of the kitchen. Holland blinks, once, frozen. And then his vision clears, even as the red shape of Jackson’s hand blossoms on his cheek.

He shakes his head like a dog “Okay. Yeah. I needed that.” He reaches into the pocket of his jacket. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Jackson’s palm burns, half-pain half-guilt, but Holland has already moved on. He sticks a cigarette in his mouth almost automatically, lights it, and shoves his hand in the cookie jar.

Holland’s pistol glints in the kitchen light as he stuffs it into his shoulder holster and shrugs the leather sheath on over his button-down. He crosses into the living room and crouches down, grabbing the duffel bag of cocaine off the carpet. His eyes meet Jackson’s across the room.

“We got any more guns than just this?” He asks.

* * *

Jackson’s shotgun rests next to the duffel bag on the back seat of the Toronado as it speeds down the road to Beverly Hills. Behind the wheel, Jackson’s white knuckling it. He glances over to the passenger seat. Holland has his cigarette dangling from his bottom lip and a thousand yard stare out the windshield. It’s maybe the longest Holland has ever gone without saying something in the whole time Jackson’s known him, and that almost wigs him out more than anything else that’s going on.

“You holdin’ up okay?”” Jackson asks, just to make noise. Fuck, somebody’s gotta.

Holland shakes his head. “Not really, no.”

“She’s gonna be alright.”

He lets out a laugh with an edge of hysteria. “Yeah, don’t make any promises you can’t keep.”

The Wallcott and Reed Real Estate office looms ahead of them. Jackson parks across the street, and for a second they stare up at the billboard. Happy families. Happy homes.

“Fuckin’ assholes,” Holland says.

They clamber out of the car, the bag in one of Jackson’s hands and the shotgun in the other. It’s been over a year since he’s used it last—it spends ninety-nine point nine percent of its time safely and carefully hidden under his bed, next to the box of Havana cigars that his dad had given him when he got married and that, after ensuing betrayals, he’s never quite been able to bring himself to finish—but the heft of it alone is reassuring, a heavy weight in his hand. Jackson doesn’t care for guns—he’d rather have a fair fight, a punch in the teeth for a fist in the gut, and no fucking internal bleeding unless they really goddamn deserve it—but desperate times call for desperate measures and, as they walk side-by-side into the lobby, Jackson finds himself perfectly willing to shoot a motherfucker in the head if he has to. He averts his eyes for a second and says a silent apology to Holly.

The place is so air-conditioned it feels like New York in February—Jackson would know, as a teenager he and his friends spent an awful lot of winter afternoons in Van Cortland Park hustling cheap mittens and caps—and it makes his skin go goose-bumped. He shrugs his jacket closer around his shoulders and tightens his grip on the duffel bag.

“He’s gonna make us take the fucking elevator,” Holland mutters next to him as they cross the lobby. He’s fidgeting nearly uncontrollably, picking at the seams of his jacket, tapping his foot. “Prick.”

Jackson hits the ‘up’ button with his elbow. “Better than taking the stairs.” He doesn’t mention what they both already know—seventh floor means higher up, higher up means they’ll be dependent on the lift if they’ve gotta run in any sort of hurry. No lift means no way out but the stairs—too slow—or the window—too, well, lethal. There’s no surviving a fall from seven flights up.

Neither of them says anything like, “This feels like a trap.” No need to state the obvious.

With a soft, office-official ‘ding’, the elevator doors open.

They step inside. The Girl From Ipanema plays softly over the speaker, because of course it fucking does.

Holland stares at the mirrored door; his reflection stares back. He looks… pretty bad, no point in sugar coating it. The slightly concave metal doesn’t help, but even without the distortion, he’s pale, his shirt is half un-tucked—and still buttoned crooked—and his hair is all over the place. He tries to smooth it down half-heartedly.

“That thing loaded?” Jackson asks, nodding at Holland’s holster. His partner glances down, startled out of his thoughts.

“Good question.” He checks the cylinder. “Shit.”

“Anything?”

Holland holds up the pistol to show him. “Yeah, two bullets.”

“Oof.”

“Oof is right.” He re-holsters the gun. “Fuck.”

“I don’t suppose you have any extra bullets in your pockets?”

Holland shoots him a look.

"Well,” Jackson says pragmatically, “I guess you’re gonna just have to not miss.”

“Miss? Jesus, I hope I don’t even have to fire.” Holland shudders. “I need a fuckin’ drink.”

The elevator slows to a stop. There’s a second before the doors open, and Holland spends the whole long moment willing himself not to puke. Throwing up in front of the drug lord/real estate mogul who’s kidnapped your daughter is not the sort of impression you want to make. Throwing up on him might be a good diversionary tactic, though. Holland files the thought—and the bile—away for later as the calm mechanical chime of the lift doors sounds in his ears.

The office they step out into is carpeted in plush teal. Business done for the night—legit, official business and not the whole coke-dealing/child hostage negotiation schtick—the open plan office is only half-lit. The glow of the city outside and the spotlight that floods the billboard bathe the room in a sickly, artificial evening glow.

At the other end of the sea of carpet and cubicles, Robert Reed stands facing them. He’s flanked by two large men in suits, nearly identical and one holding an Uzi, and he has his hands resting on the shoulders of the girl who stands in front of him like a human shield. Holly looks like there’s nothing she’d enjoy more than breaking each and every one of the fingers holding her in place, and simultaneously like she wants to burst into tears. Fear and anger fight for control of her face and, as she catches sight of her dad and his partner, anger seems to win, and tag teams with relief.

“Dad!” she cries out. Holland goes weak in the knees.

“Holly, oh God, are you okay?”

“She’s fine,” Reed calls, digging his nails into Holly’s shoulder. She mouths a silent ‘ow’.

Holland stabs his finger through the air at him. “You shut the fuck up. Did I ask you? Is your name Holly?”

Reed shrugs. “Is it hers? Your daughter won’t give a straight answer to anything, she’s very rude.”

“It’s genetic,” Holland snaps.

“I told him my name was ‘Bite Me’,” Holly says.

Holland’s heart swells with pride, and also with a feeling awfully similar to acid reflux. “Good job, kid,” Jackson says, flashing her a smile as he adjusts his grip on the duffel bag.

“This is all very touching,” Reed says, as one of his bodyguards reaches into his jacket and pulls out a Ruger, “but we’re running on a tight schedule, here.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, are we interrupting your Thanksgiving plans?” Holland asks sarcastically. “Do you have a cornbread in the oven that you need to get back to? Maybe some cranberry sauce?”

Reed smiles thinly. “Lucky for me, my friends from Canada celebrate their Thanksgiving in October, so they won’t be disappointed when my whore wife is coked to death on a motel floor instead of cooking the turkey in the kitchen.” He shrugs. “So hard to keep up appearances these days.”

“I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this,” Jackson growls, “but you’re a creepy fucker.”

Reed tightens his grip on Holly’s shoulders, and she winces again. “Insulting me is not a good idea, Mr. Healy.” The second bodyguard hefts the Uzi threateningly.

Holland’s heart beats out a tango under his shirt—erratic and way too fast. “Can we just get this over with?” He begs, grabbing the bag from Jackson and shoving it towards Reed. “We’ve got your coke, so let’s just… you know. Get on with it.”

“Yes, let’s.” With a nod from Reed, one of the bodyguards lurches forward like the Incredible Hulk with a lobotomy. Holland yanks the bag away, taking a hop backwards.

“Woah! Wait up.”

“What now?” Reed snaps.

“The girl, man,” Jackson says, exasperated, gesturing to Holly. “Let her go.”

Reed shakes his head. “You hand over the drugs first.”

“Abso- _fucking_ -lutely not,” Holland says, “no fucking way.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“ _No_!”

He sniffs, offended. “Please. I’m not some kind of animal. I give you my word that she’ll be unharmed.”

“Yeah, no dice,” Jackson lifts the shotgun. “You give us the kid, we give you the drugs. We’re not negotiating, here.”

“Fine.” Reed rolls his eyes and, finally, takes his hands off Holly. It’s like someone’s taken a hundred pound weight off her shoulders. “Take the brat.”

Holly bolts away from Reed and throws herself into her dad’s arms, burying her face in his chest. “I’m sorry I stole your Jack Daniels and tried to sneak out,” she says, muffled voice cracking. Holland hugs her so hard he thinks his arms might pop off.

“I love you.” He murmurs into the top of her head. And then, as tears well up in his eyes, “You’re grounded.”

She nods against his shirt. “Seems fair.”

They break apart and he holds her at arms’ length. “Did he hurt you?”

She shakes her head. “Pushed me around a little, but I’m alright.” She throws her arms around his neck in another hug, then whispers in his ear, “he’s got a knife in his left pocket.”

“He’s got guns too, sweetheart, so I don’t think it’s that big a deal but I appreciate you letting me know.” Holland gives her another squeeze and lets her go. “Take the elevator to the lobby,” he says, pointing to the doors, “go across the street, and wait for us in the car.”

Holly gives him a worried look. “I want to stay here with you and Mr. Healy.”

Holland shakes his head. “No way. Not even close to safe. Do what I say for once, okay? I’m serious.”

“But—”

Jackson lays a hand on her shoulder. “Holly,” he says gently, “listen to your father.”

She glances between the two, then bites her lip and nods. She backs up towards the elevator bank, walking right into the down button. “Be careful,” she calls to them from across the office as the metal doors open, “Or I’m gonna be really angry, okay?”

Holland grins at her as she steps into the elevator. It feels like his heart is dropping down to the ground floor with her.

A slow, sardonic clap starts behind them, and Holland and Jackson turn back with matching glares. Robert slaps his palms together exaggeratedly.

“Adorable,” he drawls, “I’m touched.”

“Could you maybe shut the fuck up for ten seconds?” Jackson scowls. “Why are you trying to sound like a comic book bad guy? You’ve got what you wanted.”

“True.” Reed jerks his chin towards them, and the bodyguards lurch forward. “Grab a handful of private dick, boys.”

Holland snorts and Jackson shoots Thing 1 and Thing 2 a death glare. “Fuckin’ try it.”

“Move,” Thing 1 growls with a voice like gargled gravel, pressing the Ruger into Holland’s side while Thing 2 brandishes the Uzi. They walk them back towards the window. “Drop the bag.”

Holland glances over his shoulder and down through the window to the road below, watching Holly’s small shape as she runs across the street and hops into the car. He gives Jackson a short nod, and he lets the duffel bag fall to the ground with a cushioned thud.

Reed plants himself in front of them with a smile. “Now,” he says, “I believe you have something of mine.”


	12. Chapter 12

Holland kicks the duffel bag over to Reed. “It’s all yours, man.”

Reed snaps his fingers and Thing 1 re-holsters his Ruger, kneeling on the carpet and unzipping the bag. He pulls out a plastic-wrapped brick of cocaine and looks up at his boss. “It’s all here.”

Reed glares at him. “Count them, Butch.”

“But, boss—”

“Count. Them.”

Butch frowns and starts emptying the sack, stacking the packages on top of each other carefully. Reed snaps his fingers, pointing to Jackson. “Franz, keep the Uzi trained on this one. We wouldn’t want anybody getting hurt with that nasty-looking shotgun.”

“Not exactly a fair match,” Jackson mutters. Franz, his face looking like it was carved out of a particularly ugly rock, grunts.

“Seven… eight…” Butch counts under his breath.

“It’s all there.” Holland interrupts, impatient.

Reed shoots him an incredulous look. “Forgive me for my skepticism, Mr. March, but our distrust in each other is mutual.”

“Says the criminal.”

Reed’s frown deepens. “I’m not a _criminal_ ,” he spits the word like a hocked loogie, “I’m a business man.”

Jackson snorts. “You’re a drug dealer in an ugly suit.”

“You have no right to judge my fashion choices,” Reed scoffs, eyeing Jackson’s Hawaiian shirt, “and I’m just a middleman. I saw an opportunity for an opening in the market, and I took it.”

“You tried to kill your wife!” Holland exclaims. Jackson shoots him a look—a look he’s seen a bunch of times, the one that means _For Christ’s sake, Holland, shut up_ , and Holland could kick himself, honestly. _Fuck_.

Reed narrows his eyes. “Tried?”

”… and succeeded. Of course,” Holland lies lamely. “Which, you know, follow-through is an important aspect of… business… stuff…” he fumbles. Jackson groans.

Letting out a long breath through his nose, Reed levels his gaze at Jackson. “So. I take it Donna survived.”

“Not for lack of trying.” Jackson glowers.

Reed sighs. “Shame. If you two had been just a few minutes later… thought I guess it doesn’t matter now.” He checks his watch. “In less than twelve hours, this coke is going to be on a one-way flight to Toronto. And you and my soon-to-be ex-wife will be on a one-way flight to Hell.”

Suddenly, Franz hefts the Uzi and opens fire wildly, the spray of bullets smashing into the window only a foot to the left of Jackson, leaving it a spider web of fractures, cracks spreading floor to ceiling, before it bursts into a mess of glass. Holland screams—not a yell, not even a cry, a full-on Fay Wray scream—and Jackson dives to the floor, knocking them sideways. Across from them, Reed has covered his ears with his hands, a shocked look on his face.

“STOP!” He shouts, and Franz freezes, looking guilty. The rat-a-tat clamor of the gun rings in the air, tinnitus-y and awful.

“Holy fucking shit!” Holland shrieks, shaking like a pissing Chihuahua. Jackson’s face is pale, drained of all color.

Reed wheels on Franz. “What the hell was _that_?”

Franz looks befuddled. “You—you said that was the cue—”

“ _Butch’s_ cue!” He shouts, face turning red. “You can’t shoot that in here, you idiot! It’s just for show! Are you _trying_ to kill us all?”

“Sorry, boss,” he mutters. Jackson glances out the non-shattered window. The billboard outside has caught on fire, the stray bullets shattering half the bulbs lighting the sign. He eyes the base of the billboard—a thin ledge about ten feet down.

“Jesus Christ,” Holland is hyperventilating on the carpet next to him. Jackson elbows him in the ribs.

“Keep it together, man,” he hisses, and Holland struggles through a nod, sucking in a deep breath.

“What the fuck are we gonna do?” He whines.

Reed is too distracted yelling at Franz to pay attention to them, and Jackson nods to a duct hanging from the ceiling, dangling half-shot down by the spastic Uzi.

“I think I’ve got a plan,” he whispers.

“Is it a good plan?”

Jackson considers that for a second. “It’s better than waiting around the die.”

“Oh. Great. Wonderful.” Holland squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m too sober for this.”

The shotgun, dropped, lies too far away for Jackson to reach. “You still got your gun?”

Holland pats himself down, then nods. “Yeah.”

“Good.” Jackson taps Holland’s arm. “When I give the signal, I need you to shoot out that lamp right there.” He jerks his head towards a large floor lamp by the broken duct. It’s topped with a fat incandescent bulb, one of the only lights turned on in the office.

“What’s the signal?”

“Hey!” Butch barks, attention focused back on them. He jerks the Ruger upwards. “On your feet!”

“You’ll know it when it happens,” Jackson mutters as they clamber to stand, arms raised above their heads defensively.

Holland lets out a jittery laugh. “Oh, great. That’s not vague at all.”

“Trust me,” Jackson growls.

And that’s the thing. Holland does. He shifts his weight and feels the heft of the pistol in its holster, hidden under his jacket.

Reed smoothes his hair back and straightens his jacket, looking frazzled. “Where were we?”

“You were threatening to kill us,” Holland says.

“Right.” Reed sighs. “Look. You really haven’t given me much of a choice, here. You shouldn’t have stuck your noses into other people’s business.”

“You can’t kill everyone who gets in your way,” Jackson tries to reason.

With a short, ugly laugh, Reed picks up the duffel bag. “Actually, I can.” He glances out the unbroken window, behind Jackson and Holland, down to the street below. “Shame about your daughter though,” He says casually, “it’s always messy, killing a child.”

“You’re gonna die screaming, Reed,” Holland threatens, jerking his head at Jackson, “and he’s gonna do it, and I’m gonna watch—”

“March,” Jackson interrupts calmly, “do you smell gas?”

Holland whirls on him. “ _What?_ ”

“What?” Reed asks, confused.

“Do you smell gas?” Jackson repeats.

Holland groans, throwing his eyes over to the vent. “Really?”

Reed sniffs the air. “Where _is_ that coming from?” He asks Butch.

“Really.” Jackson urges.

“I dunno, boss.”

“Oh, God,” Holland blanches, reaching into his jacket, “okay, here goes.”

“Hey!” Franz shouts, spotting the movement. He turns the Uzi on Holland, but it’s too late. Holland pulls the gun from his holster and fires a single shot into the floor lamp. The incandescent light shatters—

—and everything explodes.

* * *

It happens like this:

There are two kinds of shocks, the ones you know are coming, and the ones you don’t. The ones you don’t, one second everything’s fine and the next it’s not. You’re suddenly sitting smack dab in the middle of chaos, everything gone to shit around you, and you’re left on your ass thinking _Wait, weren’t we just sitting down to dinner_? _Where’s all this fire coming from_? _Where did my wife go_?

Holland knows that kind, obviously. Intimately. But he knows the first sort even better, the _Oh shit, brace for impact_ type. Like when your car spins out and you can see the brick wall that you’re heading straight for, when time seems to slow to a crawl and your life doesn’t flash before your eyes, only the tequila-hazy thought, _Fuck, like this, really_?

When the burst of flame from the shattered incandescent bulb meets the gas spewing sinister and silent from the broken vent and ignites into what is, essentially, a giant ball of flame, it’s the _Fuck, really_? kind.

The sight and the sound of the explosion are enough to freeze Holland completely. A horrible sick déjà vu wraps around him like a really fucked up straightjacket. Everything goes white in the blinding brightness, the heat an impossible wave. And as Holland feels a hand wrap around his wrist all he can think is, _Shit, who’s gonna take care of Holly_?

And then an invisible force is knocking him back, and he’s flying.

* * *

Holland pulls out his gun, and Jackson is already reaching for his hand.

No, not because they’re about to die and he wants one last point of contact with the idiot partner that he works with and sleeps with and absolutely will not be admitting that he’s developed something like genuine affection for—thought, if his admittedly half-baked plan doesn’t work, that’ll certainly be a silver lining to their cloud of imminent death.

He wraps his fingers around Holland’s wrist as the bullet leaves the chamber of the gun and holds on as tight as he can, turning his head away from the blast. Jackson really, really hopes he’s timed this right, because if he hasn’t they’re well and truly fucked.

The blast of the explosion knocks them back—straight through the already broken window—and as time slows down, flying backwards out of the seventh story with a tight grip on his partner, the only thought in Jackson’s head is _Wait, maybe this was a stupid plan_.

* * *

From the car, Holly watches the windows on the seventh floor blow out, glass and fire flying through the air. She hears someone scream and it takes a second for her to realize that it’s her own voice.

Three figures plummet out the window, propelled by the explosion. Holly’s hands fly to cover her mouth as one of them hits the bottom of the billboard, the second dangling from his arm like a pendulum. The third person falls, vanishing from sight.

Holly stares at them in horror as the fire engine comes tearing up to park outside the building. A firefighter hops out onto the pavement and Holly leans out of the car, waving her arms.

“Hey!” She shouts. The firefighter turns and she points to the billboard. “You’ve gotta get them down!”

His gaze follows her finger and he does a double take. “Holy shit!”

“It’s my dad and his partner, please, you’ve gotta help them!” Holly pleads.

* * *

Jackson’s pretty sure his arm has been wrenched out of its socket. His shoulder is in incredible pain—dislocated, he thinks, and though it’s a pain he’s felt before that doesn’t make it feel, you know, better—and his ears are ringing, half-deafened by the blast. His non-dislocated arm is wrapped around the metal piping around the edge of the billboard, holding him up, and his other hand—hurting like a bitch, but grip like a vice—is still holding Holland. He can just barely hear the other man’s panicked mantra of “Oh God oh God oh fuck oh God,” and just being able to make out Holland’s voice sends incongruous waves of relief crashing over Jackson, even as every sway the other man makes it feel like his arm is about to be ripped clean off.

He glances down. “You okay?” He shouts.

Holland looks up at him in a daze. “I think my wrist is broken.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“ _This_ was your plan?”

“Well, we’re not dead yet, are we?”

Holland lets out a hysterical laugh, and the movement jars Jackson into a deep wince. “I’m gonna have to drop you.”

Panic spreads across Holland’s face. “ _What_? No!”

“I can’t hold on! You’re going to have to try to land on that flat part of the roof there, it’s only ten feet down,” Jackson jerks his chin at the cement surface that the legs of the billboard are standing on.

“Fuck.” Holland’s face is ashen as he looks down and gulps. “Can you at least count to three or something?”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“I need to brace myself!”

Jackson rolls his eyes. “Okay, one, two…”

“I love you,” Holland blurts out.

Jackson drops him.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the home stretch now! Only one (maybe two? Probably one) chapter left. This story was originally only supposed to be like, 6000 words long, holy shit, has this ever gotten out of hand.

Holland lands on the concrete with a crash. He lies there for a second, all of the wind knocked out of his body, staring up at Jackson as he steadies his hold on the ledge. Jackson stares down at him, horrified.

“Are you okay?” He shouts.

Holland lets out a groan. “I guess.”

“Why would you tell me that right now?”

“I don’t know, it just came out!” Holland is as surprised as Jackson, honestly. “Fuck, I popped my stitches.” Blood seeps through his sleeve, slow and oozy through the rumpled fabric.

The wail of the fire engine’s siren cuts through his explosion-fuzzy hearing. The sound is weirdly comforting, and Holland reaches into his jacket, feeling out the solid rectangle of a packet of cigarettes. Jesus H. Christ, he needs some nicotine. And to chug a whole bottle of vodka, preferably within the next ten minutes. He pulls a Marlboro out and sticks it in his mouth, digging deeper into the pocket for his lighter, but his fingers bump up against another, different shape—hard, metal, and definitely not a lighter—

“March!” Jackson shouts, “look out!”

Holland rolls to the side reflexively, just as a knife swishes down past his cheek, dinging against the concrete where his head was a second earlier. He lets out a muffled scream and jolts up on his elbows, unlit cigarette going flying out of his mouth and off the side of the building.

Robert Reed crouches on the rooftop next to him. A bloody smear on the ground shows where he’s crawled from behind a brick smokestack, and as he gets to his feet, Holland takes him in—suit charred, face bloody with a hundred tiny cuts, knife clutched white-knuckled in his hand and eyebrows entirely burnt off his face. His eyes are almost popping out of his head, his teeth bared. He looks one-hundred-percent absolutely fucking deranged.

“Holy shit,” Holland yelps, scrambling back on his ass.

Reed stalks towards him. One of his ankles buckles, twisted from the fall out the window, but even with the limp he’s scary fast. “You stupid fuck,” he hisses, “I’m going to kill you.”

Reed lunges forward and Holland topples backwards, ducking away as the knife swipes through the air an inch from his nose. The tape recorder—because that’s what it is, forgotten this whole time in his jacket—falls out of his pocket and goes skidding across the cement rooftop. It glints in the light from the fires. Holland and Reed both stare at it for a long second, then look up at each other.

“Shit.” Holland throws himself at the recorder, barely grabbing a hold of it before Reed barrels into him. He pins Holland to the concrete. They grapple for the recorder, Reed struggling to pry it from Holland’s hands as he clutches it to his chest.

“Give it to me!”

“Fuck you!” Holland wriggles away from Reed’s clawing fingers.

There’s a thud and an “oof” as Jackson drops to the ground behind them. Reed turns to look over his shoulder and a fist connects with his jaw, knocking him sideways off of Holland, who staggers to his feet and stumbles away, shoving the recorder back in his pocket.

Reed hauls himself to his feet and spits a tooth off the side of the roof. Across from him, Jackson rubs his bloody knuckles.

“You could’ve walked away from this,” Jackson warns. “You didn’t have to make it personal. But you did, and now here we fuckin’ are.”

Reed snarls and throws himself at Jackson like a wild animal. Jackson manages to elbow him in the chest, but rearing back, Reed smacks his forehead into Jackson’s nose. There’s a crunch and Jackson cries out, and before he can jerk away Reed plunges the knife into the meat of his shoulder and then pulls the blade out as Jackson stumbles back, clutching his arm, blood flowing freely from his nose, disoriented.

Reed eyes the blood on his blade and turns his back on Jackson. He advances towards Holland, his eyebrow-less face manic. “I didn’t survive Korea to deal with morons like you,” he rants. “Two less sleazy detectives in the world? Nobody’s going to miss you.”

Holland shakes his head, retreating back to the edge of the roof. “You’re crazy,” he says.

Reed licks his lips. “Hand over that recorder,” he says, “and I’ll kill you nice and fast.”

“Not a fucking chance,” growls a voice behind him, and Reed whirls around as Jackson grabs him by the shoulders and gives him an almighty shove.

Reed falters at the edge of the concrete and grabs a handful of Jackson’s shirt. Time seems to slow down as he wobbles forward and, underhand, thrusts his fist upwards.

The knife slides into Jackson’s side without a sound, shockingly smooth between his ribs. He doesn’t look angry, or even like it really hurts—the expression on his face is just surprised.

Holland feels like someone’s just emptied a bucket of ice water over his head. _No_ , he can hear himself think, _no, that’s not right_ —

And then Reed is toppling backwards, grip on Jackson lost. The knife slips out, still clutched in his hand, and a bright arterial spurt of blood gushes out as he falls over the ledge with a scream, disappearing from view.

Jackson staggers back, hands automatically pressing against the wound, trying to staunch the flow.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and collapses to his knees.

 _This isn’t happening_. Holland is on the concrete before he can even think, prying Jackson’s hands away from the cut. It’s deep, blood coming out in rhythmic heart-beat pumps, like the world’s most fucked-up well. Bile rises in Holland’s throat. “Oh shit. This is bad.”

“Ya think?” Jackson wheezes through his broken nose.

“I’m gonna put pressure on it, we’ll get you to the hospital and everything’s gonna be okay…” Holland babbles. Jackson closes his eyes and sags into his grip as he maneuvers his broad shoulders back against his lap. Fuck, there’s a lot of blood. Holland snaps his fingers in front of Jackson’s face, trying something, anything, to get him to stay awake. “Hey!” He prompts Jackson hysterically, grasping at straws, “Aren’t you that diner guy?”

Jackson laughs, then winces. “Are you for real?”

“Yeah man, come on, tell it to me…”

“Okay, okay,” Jackson takes a shuddering breath. “I was in this diner, and—”

“What were you eating?”

“Why does that matter?”

“I don’t know, I wanna know if this guy ruined a perfectly good turkey club or whatever—”

“Burger,” Jackson gasps, “bacon cheeseburger. Deluxe.”

“Jesus, no wonder you’re so fat.” Holland presses his palm down against the cut on Jackson’s side, trying not to think too hard about the way it’s gaping open. He’s sweating through his shirt and it’s half the fault of the fact that the building is still on fire and half the hot panic coursing through his veins.

Jackson flashes him a look, somehow managing to still look bemused even smeared with blood and with all the color draining from his face. “You wanna hear the story or are you just gonna insult me?”

“Keep going,” Holland says, fingers trembling as they soak in Jackson’s blood, “keep talking.”

Jackson smiles weakly. “So I’m in the middle of my burger and this guy comes running in with a shotgun…”

Holland zones out. He can’t focus on words, just on the sound of Jackson’s voice and the blood on his hands. It seems like it’s _everywhere_. Why is there so much of it? Jackson’s lips are starting to turn blue in the flickering orange light from the fire above. A chunk of billboard paper crashes to the rooftop a few feet away and Holland jumps with a swear. Jackson groans and breaks off, and the both of them stare at the flaming face of Off-Brand Mike Brady as it burns up on the concrete.

“Getting cold up here,” Jackson says softly. Holland presses down on the wound with one hand and raises the other to his partner’s face. His fingers leave streaks of blood through the stubble on his cheek, and Holland blanches.

“Shit, sorry.”

“’S okay.” Jackson slurs, turning his face into Holland’s palm. His eyes drift closed again.

“Wait!” Holland pats him on the cheek and then, when that fails to rouse him, flicks Jackson in the ear. Jackson opens one eye and glares at him.

“Fuckin’ ow.”

“Tell me the story again, I wasn’t listening.”

“Seriously?”

“You’re in the diner, and then what?”

Jackson sighs. “Give it a rest.” He lifts one hand and drops it over the one that Holland’s got pressed up against his side. “’M tired.”

“No, come on, hey—”

“Holland,” Jackson squeezes his hand weakly, and Holland cuts himself off. He blinks down at his partner. Fuck, he’s crying, he’s definitely crying…

“What?”

The corner of Jackson’s mouth quirks up in a half-smile. “What you said up there. The feeling’s mutual.”

“ _What_?” Holland presses down harder as Jackson’s eyes start to droop. “No. No no no. Don’t do this to me. I can’t do this again, Jack, stay with me—” There’s a thunk somewhere out of his line of sight, but he can’t look away from Jackson. “Come on Healy, you asshole, don’t you fucking die on me!”

Someone’s hands are on his shoulders, and he yanks out of their grip. “Sir,” a voice is saying, muffled as if through a mask, “you’ve got to come with us—”

“No!”

“Sir!” More than one pair of hands are on him now, in thick rubber gloves, pulling him up and Holland is fighting, fighting to stay here, and Jackson won’t open his fucking eyes—

“Sir, we’ve got to go!”

The firefighters pull Holland away from Jackson and the last thing he sees before everything goes black is the blood on his hands.

* * *

It’s gotten to the point where waking up in the hospital doesn’t surprise Holland anymore. There’s none of that sick “where am I” disorientation when he blinks up at the white ceiling and listens to the soft, even beeps of the monitors beside the bed—just a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knows where he is, and for once, that doesn’t make things any better.

He lifts one hand, as if through water, and sees an IV threaded under his skin, the dull familiar itch of it crawling up his arm like a centipede or an earwig or another one of those horrible bugs with all the fucking legs. A glance at his other arm and there’s a new cast, not as big as the last one, but off-white and encasing his hand and wrist in hard plaster. They must have him on some not-so-heavy-duty shit, though, because the familiar fog of painkillers is already starting to clear away like smoke hitting a fan. His whole body aches. His head feels worse.

“Dad?” A soft voice asks, and he looks up to see Holly sitting in a plastic chair beside the bed. She looks small, younger than her age, and for a second Holland’s reminded of the first time he saw her, a nurse lifting her from her mother’s arms and putting her in his, unbelievably warm and tiny and strange.

“Hhh—” his voice catches, and he coughs, throat bone dry. “Hey, sweetheart,” he rasps.

Holly lunges out of the chair and throws her arms around his neck. He lets out a wheeze—it hurts—but wraps her in a hug as best he can. “I thought you were gonna die,” she mutters, voice cracking.

“I’m okay,” he soothes, “I… think I’m okay.” He holds her at arms’ length, takes in the sight of her in day-old clothes, her face ashen. “Are you okay?”

She nods and nudges for him to scoot over, which he does, not that easily. She settles in to sit next to him, helping him get propped up on the pillows. “I’m fine. I’m not the one who got blown up and fell out a seventh story window.”

“Did get kidnapped, though.”

Holly rolls her eyes to hide the fact that they’re getting teary. “Yeah, cross that one off the bucket list,” she says, laying on the sarcasm thick. God, is she ever his kid. Holland strokes her hair and she drops back to lean against him with a shuddering sigh.

“How long was I out?” He asks.

“Couple of hours.” Holly bites her lip. “It’s two AM.”

“ _Two_? Jesus Christ, you should’ve been in bed, like. Hours ago.”

“I don’t think regular bed time rules apply in this kind of situation, dad.”

Holland nods, but his mind’s elsewhere. The night is fragmented, but the more the painkiller haze dissipates, the larger that hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach grows. He clears his throat, not wanting to freak Holly out. “And, uh. Do you know…” it feels like his throat is closing up like a kid with a peanut allergy after a close encounter with a Reese’s cup. Fuck, he can’t even spit the question out. “Did you talk to the doctors at all?”

Holly smiles at him weakly. “They said you’re gonna be okay. Just a broken wrist and some bruises and lacerations. You can check yourself out whenever you want.”

“That’s… that’s great, honey.” He forces himself to say. He takes a deep breath. “Do you know where Jackson is?”

Holly’s smile falls and Holland’s heart drops with it. It must show on his face, because she waves her hands, shaking her head. “He’s alive! He’s alive, dad.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Holland exhales, dropping his head to his chest.

“He got out of surgery a little while ago, he’s not…” Holly forces herself to stop and gather her breath. “He’s not awake yet.”

Holland nods, the motion of it almost a nervous tic. “Okay. Okay, that’s… okay.”

"Dad," Holly says, slowly, carefully, "do you love Mr. Healy?"

Holland's breath catches in his throat. "I—it’s complicated, sweetheart."

"No, it's not." She shakes her head. "No bullshit, alright, just tell me the truth. Do you love him the same way you loved Mom?"

Holland considers denying it, for a long second. Considers shaking his head, forcing a laugh, _No, sweetheart, of course not, what are you, crazy?_ Instead, he looks down at the blanket. Avoiding her eyes. "... yeah. I think I do."

Holly nods seriously. "Okay." She says. "Thank you." She leans her head back against her dad's shoulder and reaches down to squeeze his hand in hers. “Do you want me to get a doctor?”

“Yeah, sweetheart, could you please?” He asks, trying to will his heart to stop thudding against his ribcage quite so hard. Holly hops off the bed and darts out into the hallway, and he presses his palm to his mouth and tries to force a sob back down his throat.

A doctor appears—an older woman in a white coat with short brown hair and serious eyes—with Holly hovering behind her. “Mr. March?” She asks, “How are we feeling?” Holland bites the inside of his cheek and forces himself to smile.

“Not bad, doc,” he lies through his teeth. “The guy I came in with, how’s he doing?”

“Mr. Healy is out of surgery,” she says, voice and face flat. The lady couldn’t be more opaque if she tried.

Holland lifts his hand to gesture and yelps as the IV tugs sharp and painful. “Yeah, but how is he?”

She looks down her nose at him. “He was quite badly injured, Mr. March. He suffered a broken nose, a dislocated shoulder, a stab wound to the same shoulder, and internal bleeding from a second stab wound to the abdomen. He’s very lucky to be alive.”

“But how—”

“He’s going to be fine,” she cuts him off. Holland lets out a long breath and sags back against the pillows. “He’s going to have quite a healing period, but he should make a complete recovery.”

“Oh, thank fuck.” Holland sighs, ignoring the disapproving look the doctor shoots him. Then: “When can I see him?”


	14. Chapter 14

Jackson blinks awake to the lemony-clean smell of antiseptic and the sound of a heart monitor’s steady beeping. He can feel a tightness in his side, like a seam pulled too taut, and his nose aches, though all the considerable hurt he knows he’s going to have to deal with in the near future is muted to a tolerable, dreamy morphine dullness.

Someone clears their throat and he turns his head, heavy against the pillow. Holland sits beside the bed, reclining in a wheelchair with forced casualness. His right eye is swollen a little under a cut on his brow, and one corner of his mustache is signed. The hospital gown he’s wearing slips down and his bruised and freckled shoulder peeks out. A lit cigarette dangles off his lip.

“You been watching me sleep?” Jackson rasps.

Holland squints and takes a deep drag on his Marlboro. “When the Hell were you planning to tell me that you made me your emergency medical contact?”

“I was sort of hoping it wouldn’t ever come up,” Jackson says.

“Well, that worked out. Clearly.”

“Are your legs okay?”

“What? They’re fine, why?”

Jackson points with the arm that doesn’t feel like it’s been run over repeatedly by a truck. “You’re in wheelchair.”

“Oh.” Holland glances down, “Yeah, I just didn’t feel like walking.”

Jackson wheezes out a laugh. Despite the general ache and the itches where he’s been stitched up, the painkillers have wrapped him in a fuzzy good mood. And why wouldn’t he be in a good mood? They’re clearly both alive, he can feel all his extremities, they seem safe—

“Reed,” he says, as the thought hits him, “is he—”

“Dead as the dodos,” Holland taps the end of his cigarette into the ashtray on his lap. “They’re scraping him off the pavement right now.”

Jackson lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “And the tape recorder?”

“Handed it over to the cops about half an hour ago.”

He grunts. “You think they’re gonna do anything about it?”

Holland shrugs. “Who fucking knows. Maybe, maybe not—I’m just happy that you’re. Y’know. Not bleeding to death in my fucking arms.” Jackson notices that his hands are shaking as he reaches up to pluck the cigarette from his lips. “You really had me worried back there, man. I didn’t know if you were gonna—”

“Yeah. Me neither.” Jackson blinks up at the ceiling.

The cigarette crumples in on itself as Holland stubs it out angrily in the ashtray, shaking his head. “I nearly got you killed.”

“You can’t beat yourself up about that, I’m okay—”

“You’re not okay, you’re not fucking okay!” Holland explodes. The wheelchair rocks backwards precariously with the outburst and he squirms up and out of it with a swear. “You’re in a hospital bed and your nose is broken and you got stabbed like five times—”

“—twice—”

“You got _stabbed_ , Jackson!” He shouts, wobbly on his own two feet.

“Yeah, and it’s not your fault.” Jackson grits out. Whatever they’ve got him on is starting to wear off, and the dull ache that’s been throbbing through choice spots on his body is growing into something sharper. “Holland, I’m in a lot of pain here, can we just skip the part of this where you go on a guilt trip for no fucking reason?”

Holland flops down on the bed, in the tiny undisturbed wedge of space beside Jackson. “I’m trying to apologize,” he mutters.

“I know you are.”

“Okay.” Holland exhales long and heavy. He fidgets a little closer, until their sides are pressed together through the starchy hospital sheets. “Can I—?”

Jackson nods and closes his eyes as Holland leans forward. He presses their foreheads together gently, one hand coming up to cup Jackson’s cheek, and the pressure that Jackson expects against his lips doesn’t come. He blinks and looks at Holland, so close, eyes shut so tight that his lashes tremble a little against his skin.

“Okay,” Holland breathes, talking to himself more than to Jackson, reassuring.

“You gonna be alright?”

“Am I gonna be alright,” Holland mutters, “I’m not the one that got stabbed.”

“Twice,” Jackson reminds him, and something warm opens up in his chest when Holland chokes out a laugh. “You can kiss me now, you know,” he says.

“Someone might see,” Holland murmurs, but his heart isn’t in it. There’s no real protest behind the words.

None of the usual fear seems to be hitting Jackson, either. Maybe it’s the painkillers, maybe it’s just that he’s happy to be alive. Happy they’re both alive. What is there to not be happy about? “Nobody’s gonna see,” he says, and using his good arm, he pulls Holland by the collar of his hospital gown, closing the last inch between them.

* * *

There’s a giant paper cutout of a turkey plastered on the wall behind the nurse’s station. Holly eyes it as she pads down the hall in her sneakers, a crumpled twenty-dollar bill clutched in her fist. The glass doors of the hospital open with a pneumatic whoosh, and she steps onto the pavement with a little hop.

It’s nearing noon, and the outside air—however smoggy and warm—feels like a relief to Holly after hours cooped up in the stagnant, over-air conditioned hospital. She closes her eyes and leans back against the hard wall of the building, letting the sound of the city wash over her. Anything, she knows at this point, is better than beeping machines and white hallways. Hospitals, Holly realizes, give her the hardcore heebie-jeebies.

Opening her eyes with a sigh, Holly catches sight of a guy a couple years older than her, wearing a stained white diner uniform with a plastic nametag—“Todd”—and leaning up against a beat-up Oldsmobile. She makes a beeline straight for him where he’s parked by the curb.

“You Holly?” Todd asks.

“That’s me,” she says, and shoves him the twenty. “You got the stuff?”

“Everything you asked for on the phone.” He pops the back door of the car and heaves out a white paper sack, handing it to her. “It’s only gonna be, like, twelve bucks.” He squints at her shirt. “Is that blood?”

Holly glances down at the rusty blotch on her tee, then back up at Todd. “Yep.” She hefts the sack, tucking it in the crook of her elbow. “Keep the change,” she says.

Heading back in, Holly can hear some of the nurses muttering as she walks by. She knows they’re talking about her—she can feel them staring—but she can’t bring herself to care. Mostly she’s just too tired to give a crap what they think of the fourteen year-old in bloodstained clothes with what appears to be two dads, both of whom look like they’ve been dropped from a great height into a meat grinder.

 _Two dads_. The thought sits weird in her head, though it’s… not really the first time she’s had it. It’s not like her dad’s ever been good at hiding his thoughts, and Jackson isn’t exactly the greatest at it either, despite the world’s-most-stoic act he tries to put on. She’s not stupid, duh. Her friend Sandy has two moms—or rather, she has a “roommate,” but come on, everyone knows what the deal is there. Holly doesn’t know if she can picture her dad and Mr. Healy acting the way that Sandy’s moms do—holding hands, sitting beside each other on the couch with their knees pressed together, kissing each other goodbye in the morning and disappearing into the same bedroom at night. Doesn’t know how she really feels about it, either. In her head those activities are sill reserved for Mom-And-Dad, the conjoined parent entity that Holly has never been quite able to separate, even with Mom gone.

But when she opens the door to the hospital room, her dad is holding Jackson’s hand. Perched awkwardly in the wheelchair that he’s been insisting on rolling around in, his fingers are wrapped tight around Jackson’s larger ones, the two of them with their gazes fixed on each other like they’re the narrow central points of the universe. It only lasts a second—Holland jumps and untangles their hands the second he hears the door open—but Holly catches it, just for that moment, before the two of them are smiling up at her. Jackson is propped up against his pillows, looking pale but sitting up, and her dad waves her over.

“Did you get ‘em?” He asks. Holly holds up the bag triumphantly.

“Three turkey and stuffing, cranberry sauce on the side,” she proclaims. She pulls three paper-wrapped sandwiches out of the sack and pops one open.

“Smells good,” Jackson says, though he can’t be smelling much through his broken nose. Holland reaches across the bed and snatches a sandwich before Holly can set them down on the side table. He unwraps it, taking a massive bite. Jackson cocks an eyebrow at him. “Jesus, March, chew your damn food.”

“’M hungry,” Holland mumbles around a mouthful of turkey.

Holly pushes aside the tray of untouched hospital food and hands Jackson a sandwich. “Bon appetite.”

“Thanks, kid.” She sits down on the end of the bed and tucks into the food. Her hunger hits her with the first waft of the smell of cranberry and stuffing, at the same time that nostalgia punches her directly in the gut. She takes a bite, the two feelings battling inside her until her stomach grumbles and hunger wins. She jerks her chin towards the tray.

“Can I have your Jell-o, if you’re not gonna eat it?”

“I already called dibs.” Holland interjects, but Jackson rolls his eyes.

“It’s all yours.”

“Hey!”

“Grab it before your father does.”

Holly seizes the little plastic tub as Holland lunges forward. He leans back in the wheelchair with a groan.

“I can’t believe this. The two of you conspiring against me, you’re a couple of Judases.”

Holly pretends to consider things for a moment. “You can have a bite. One bite.”

“Well thanks, your highness, royal vizier of pudding snacks.”

The three of them eat their sandwiches, drifting into comfortable silence as they chew. Holly watches her dad and Mr. Healy as they sit together, every once in a while sharing a glance, and realizes that somehow, without any of them noticing, they’ve turned into a single unit, Dad-And-Jackson, and that she’s a part of that, too. Sometime in the last year, they’ve become a family. Shit, who knew?

“Hey, guys?” She asks. They turn to look at her.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

A smile spreads across Holly’s face. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry that this took so long! Endings are so hard, you guys, and I'm not entirely happy with this (to the point where there might be some kind of epilogue? Maybe? I'm not sure yet), but I want to say thank you so much to everyone who's read this and enjoyed it, you guys are the best and this has been so much fun to write.


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